


bad for business

by tinyduck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cameos and mentions of other Haikyuu characters, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Miya Atsumu is a Little Shit, Reader is friends with the Seijoh four, Slow Burn, Timeskip Spoilers, onigiri slander i'm sorry but reader is salty af, probably improper use of japanese phrases and monetary conversion but i am trying, reader owns a pastry shop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyduck/pseuds/tinyduck
Summary: All you wanted was to be more successful than the onigiri shop across the road.You didn't expect to fall for the owner's brother along the way.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader
Comments: 315
Kudos: 473
Collections: Fanfics To Read Over and Over





	1. lemon tart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello and welcome to something silly and funny that you'll hopefully enjoy! Heads up: timeskip spoilers, as well as insufficient knowledge about volleyball off-season and Japanese cuisine.
> 
> Also, Atsumu 100% owns my ass so here I am, writing this meet-ugly for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Edited 12/20/2020 to include song link at the bottom.** Chapter two notes will explain why I am the way I am.

_Shhk. Shhk. Shhk._

“You know, you look scary when you do that.”

“Shut up.” You didn’t have to look back to know Hanamaki was grinning, probably propping himself up on his broom instead of sweeping like you’d asked him to, as per usual. 

“Staring’s not going to make it any better. Come on, boss, how’re you going to curb stomp the competition if all you’re gonna do is stare at it?”

You whirled around and pointed the business end of the knife you were sharpening at Hanamaki’s face, your eyes narrowed. “Are you going to do any of the work I’m supposed to be paying you for, or are you just going to stand around and mouth off like a brat?”

His grin grew wider, and he raised an eyebrow. “Well, if I’ve got the option…”

You masked your laugh with a snort, and jerked your head towards the kitchen. “Shut up and go work already.” 

“You got it, boss,” he said with a lazy salute, dragging the broom behind him as he hummed, disturbing the small pile of dust he had managed to sweep up. You bit back an exasperated groan and shook your head; you’d bully him into cleaning properly later. For now…

Takahiro had a point telling you staring wasn’t going to do anything, but you couldn’t help the way your eyes were drawn to the black sign directly across from you, the lovingly cleaned kanji for _Miya_ stark against it in its whiteness. The interior itself was dim in the early morning spring light, but you could still see a sliver of light peeking out from where their kitchen undoubtedly was. Not that you’d know, of course; pride had a funny way of making you refuse to contribute to your competitor’s success, no matter how small a contribution would be. It didn’t seem to deter Hanamaki however, given the number of times you’d seen him stuff an onigiri wrapper into his pocket or your trash can, not even bothering to try and hide the damn logo when he caught your eye. 

Clenching your fist, you took a deep breath in and out, and stared determinedly at the ceiling. “Today’s the day!” 

Nodding at your promise to yourself, glaring at the universe and daring it to try and prove you wrong, you strode back into the kitchen, knife at the ready.

As it turned out, it wasn’t the day.

In fact, the past couple months hadn’t been _the day_ either. You propped your head in your hand, sullenly eyeing the seemingly steady flow of customers entering and exiting the shop across from yours.

“Stop sulking,” Takahiro called from across the café, and you glared at him.

“Start sweeping,” you shot back, huffing at his chuckling. “I don’t get it,” you whined, and he had to keep from rolling his eyes, turning his back as you repeated the same monologue you’d been spouting since week four. “What’s so great about that place anyway? It’s just rice. Rice and filling and you can _make it at home_. But this?”

You swept an arm at the filled display case of pastries in front of you, tapping a finger on the glass, “ _This_ is something you can’t do. Well, at least not easily.”

“He makes good food; what else do you want me to say?” Ignoring your narrowed eyes in favour of choosing to actually sweep the floors, Hanamaki slowly made his way over to you. “Plus, he’s got other things there too. He had this _inarizushi_ the other day and I don’t know what was in it but—”

He paused and you groaned, slamming your face into the counter as he blinked. “Damn, just talking about it is making my mouth water. And besides, boss. Maybe he’s just better at advertising than you. Why don’t you stop by one time and just see how it is?” 

“No way,” you spat out, voice muffled. “If he’s not coming here, I’m not going there.”

“How do you know he hasn’t—”

“Oh, I know,” you interrupted, whipping your head up. You wisely chose to refrain from the brief crush you’d had on the young, handsome onigiri owner after the few moments you’d caught sight of him. You’d almost dropped an entire tray of _petits gateaux_ as you eyed the cut of his jaw and the broad line of his shoulders instead of watching where you were going. “And it’s a power play now. Whoever visits first automatically loses, and that’s just how it goes.”

“Wow you’re…super immature.”

“I don’t want to hear that coming from you!”

Your attempt to lunge over the counter and strangle Hanamaki was brought to an abrupt halt by the chime of the door opening, and you swiftly plastered on a bright smile that made Hanamaki choke on a laugh. It filled him with a certain degree of amusement as he watched it flicker, struggling valiantly to remain in place as you took in the sight of a very tall, very broad, very familiar man walking through the door. 

“ _Irasshaimase_!” Your voice was about an octave higher than it normally was, but you hoped it came off as saccharine rather than sour as you stared at the all too familiar logo printed smack dab in the middle of the black baseball cap sat atop a very handsome face. 

“Hey, this place is pretty cute.” Miya- _san_ gave you a crooked smile as your own grew thin. Was this some sort of thinly veiled barb about how tiny your shop was compared to his? 

“It’s nice to see you, Miya- _san_ ,” you forced out, folding your hands behind your back. “It’s quite an honour having you come visit me.”

“Huh?” His eyebrows raised; the tilt of his chin smug. “You know who I am?”

No shit, how could you not? You looked blandly between the branded hat and t-shirt he was sporting, grudgingly admitting that the silk-screen onigiri was pretty cute. Hell, if it was linked to anybody else, you’d probably wear one too. “Of course.” You wrinkled your nose at the peek of blonde hair tufting out from under the cap. “You’re famous around here.” 

“Still, it’s always nice when a pretty girl knows my name,” he said with a broad wink and you almost rolled your eyes. Hanamaki was loudly clattering the dustpan in the corner as his shoulders shook, and you fought the urge to throw something at him. Of course he was enjoying himself.

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t bother looking your guest in the eye, instead gesturing at the array of cakes and _viennoiseries_ , the rainbow of perfectly made macarons dusted with gold dust and cocoa powder, and the tiny jars of house-made jams neatly stacked and labelled. “How can I help you today?”

Miya- _san_ hummed, hemming and hawing as he slowly paced the length of the buffet laid out for him, your foot starting to tap agitatedly on the floor. Honestly, as long as he picked _something_ and got out of your store, that’s all that mattered. He paused in front of one of your favourite pâtisseries, and almost redeemed himself as he contemplated it, but then he opened his stupid mouth and said, “Yuzu, caramel, and chocolate? That’s kinda gross.”

You held your tongue, calmly trying to compose a response about flavour pairings and the benefits of the taste of citrus cutting through fat, when he just kept digging his grave.

“And 800 yen for a piece of cake is kinda steep, don’tcha think?”

The sound of the broom tumbling to the ground was deafening, but you could barely hear it over the roaring in your ears as your smile turned into more of a grimace, your brows pinching together as you tried to keep your temper in check. “Well, _you_ should be able to afford it, so what’s the problem?” 

“ _Huh_?” He shot up and yanked his hands from his pockets, crossing them over his chest as he glowered at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You mimicked him, glaring at him with a matched fiery passion. “It means if you don’t want it, then don’t get it!”

“Maybe I won’t!”

“Good!”

“Great!”

“Your tastebuds are so broken you probably wouldn’t even appreciate it anyway!” Your voice was bordering on shrill, and distantly a part of you registered Hanamaki slapping a hand to his face, but the indignation that painted itself across your unwelcome customer’s face only fueled the vindication flaring inside your chest. How dare he insult your flavour pairings? Like he knew the _first_ thing about pastry. “You probably eat the same boring things every day anyway so—”

“ _Give me the damn cake_.” He jabbed a finger at the cake in question, and you slammed the display case open, snatching it up. 

“It’s ¥880!” You slapped a box on the table, but before you could fold it he threw his money at you as you squawked in protest.

“I don’t need your stupid box. Gimme a fork.” He wiggled his fingers at you impatiently and, borne entirely out of petty spite, you threw the plastic utensil at him, your irritation growing when he snatched it effortlessly out of the air.

“Then take your stupid change!” You fumbled for the money as he turned swiftly on his foot, mouth already stuffed full of cake as he shot back,

“Keep it!”

The few manners feebly trying to battle your temper managed to quell your tongue for a few short moments, but you kept your voice sharp as you turned your nose up at him. “Fine!”

“Fine!” He stopped before the door, and for an awful moment you were worried he was about to come storming back to the counter and demand a refund, but then he whipped it open, the empty cake base crushed in his hand and a red flush painted across the bridge of his nose as he glared at you one final time. “…the cake was good.”

Then he slammed the door shut, the bell jangling behind him as Hanamaki slid to your side.

“That went well,” he said dryly, and you grumbled, trying to smooth the creased corners of the unused cake box with your fingers. 

“You’re not allowed to eat there anymore,” you declared petulantly. “And there’s _no way_ I’m trying stupid Miya Osamu’s food if he’s gonna be that rude to me.”

“Uh-huh, right,” Hanamaki drawled, taking the box from you and putting it back where it belonged. Placing a hand on your head, he gently turned you to look at him, eyes searching yours. “You good?”

You took in a deep breath and exaggerated exhaling as slowly as you could, a wry smile forming on your lips. “Better than ever.”

“Okay, good.” He paused, ruffling your hair a little, lazily shifting his palm from side to side. “You know that was his twin brother, right?”

The wicked smile that crossed his face told you your expression was probably exactly what he wanted to see as you blanched, jerking away from him.

“ _What?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:**   
>  [Bad Reputation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nO6YL09T8Fw)


	2. opera cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments on the first chapter! As another heads up, I play fast and loose with honorifics; please just...accept my inconsistency as a deep-seated flaw that I'm too lazy to get rid of.
> 
> Also, because I'm always a slut for making a soundtrack for the chaptered pieces I write, I'm including the song that either pushed me through the chapter or I feel best fits the vibe at the bottom. Feel free to give a listen if you're in the mood! Please let me know if there's anything confusing or unclear at any point, or anything that ruins your immersion; Google was my best friend for a lot of things in this story with Japanese festivals, fruits, and foods, but I am always filled with Doubt. 
> 
> Enjoy!

You were having an emotional crisis to end all emotional crises.

“I didn’t know he had a twin! Shit, this is bad—”

“Worse than if you’d actually yelled at Miya Osamu?”

“Of course it’s worse!” You flung your hands up in the air as you rounded on Makki, waving them haphazardly through the air as you tried to make him understand. “I was rude to a regular customer. Business rivals, it’s kind of expected—”

“I don’t think so…”

“—but he was just a regular guy and I,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands, “I told him his tastebuds were broken. What if he goes around telling people I said that? Nobody would come by anymore; they’d all think I’m some sort of elitist—”

Makki was snickering as he sat down at one of your tiny tables, absolutely filled with glee as he watched you crumble. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying my emotional pain,” you sniped at him with a glare, peeking out behind your fingers.

“I can’t believe you called Miya Atsumu a regular guy.”

Your hands slid off your face as you frowned, eyeing the suspiciously amused look on your friend’s face. “What? He is, isn’t he?”

“He’s a volleyball player.” Makki raised a single finger, its rise matching the anxiety swirling in your gut as you tried to mull over the implications of insulting a professional athlete. “Division one, V-league _pro_ volleyball player.”

“Is that…” You crossed your arms, trying to sound nonchalant. “Is that good?”

Makki’s eyebrows gave an amused waggle. “You really don’t know who he is?”

“Am I _supposed_ to?”

He laughed, throwing his head back so hard the front legs of the chair lifted off the ground. You secretly prayed he’d fall. “He was in the Olympics last year!”

“I don’t pay attention to that! Yes, I know I’m betraying my country,” you waved off his open mouth, “but you know me I don’t know sports! All I’ve got is clap clap, cheer cheer, go team!”

Makki regarded your fist pump with no small measure of amused distaste, kicking his long legs out in front of him as he balanced his chair on its hind legs. “Clap clap cheer cheer? ...no wonder you never went to our games in high school.”

“Don’t make me kick you over. You could’ve told me, you know.” You sniffed and stomped towards the kitchen, desperate to hide from the horribly _delighted_ air around him. 

“It was too good to stop.” Makki trailed after you, easily eating up the distance between you as he hovered in the doorway, watching you shuffle through a stack of recipe cards. 

You slapped a few on the counter, grumbling as you grabbed a cutting board. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” 

You resisted the urge to hurl your knife at his face. An hour later you caught your cream about to boil over _again_ and you let out a frustrated hiss as you quickly shifted it off the induction burner. This wasn’t working, and you blamed Miya _Atsumu_ for this mental chaos. 

“It’ll be fine,” you tried to reason with yourself, retightening your apron and flicking the switch on your mixer. “It’s not like he’s going to stop by again.”

The thought of a professional athlete willingly stopping back in a shop designed to ruin whatever hard work he’d put into his body made you laugh, relief washing over you as you tempered your yolk and sugar mix with half the cream. Watching your pastry cream thicken, you smiled happily, humming as you cheerfully berated yourself. “He’d have to be stupid to come back here.” 

Meanwhile, across the street, Osamu was _tired_.

Every muscle in his body had a deep-seated ache in it, his feet were sore, and the thought of sitting even just for a minute on the back stoop was too appealing to pass. He was grateful that at least this exhaustion came with the sweet taste of success, but he just needed a moment; a couple minutes to recharge before diving back into the fray of onigiri, _inarizushi_ , and his test batch of _tako-meshi_. He was growing sick of the octopus rice - an unheard-of phenomenon, but a testament to how much he’d be hustling lately. So, stoop. Sitting. A well-deserved break, a brief respite from the chaos that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Unfortunately for him, the back step was occupied by his doppelganger, and he looked like…was he? Yup. Sulking. Osamu’s daydream of peace and quiet was slowly slipping through his fingers; maybe he didn’t deserve a break after all. “Your fat ass is takin’ up room.”

Atsumu grumbled but barely obliged, scootching along the step to give Osamu barely enough room to pass by. Biting his tongue, the weary twin had to remind himself that his current success was partially owed to Atsumu’s ~~annoying~~ encouraging ~~whining~~ suggestion to try his hand at a shop in Osaka. Even though there had been no follow-through to his brother’s “I’ll help ya out!”, the stuffed till and safe inside soothed the sting. Kind of.

The jostling of Osamu sitting down didn’t even phase Atsumu as he leaned despondently against the wall, heaving sigh after sigh as he wilted like a betrayed lover from one of those trashy romance novels he said he read ‘just for a laugh’. It was almost enough to stir some semblance of concern in Osamu, but if there was anything he’d learned over the past twenty-something years, it was that Atsumu was notoriously awful at keeping his feelings inside; especially if they were making him feel bad.

“Hey ‘Samu.”

“What, ‘Tsumu?” 

“You know the cake shop across the street?”

Osamu groaned as he stretched his neck, voice testy as he responded. “Kinda. Haven’t really had time to stop by since some of us are actually busy _workin’_.”

“Hey, I’m helpin’ out! I’m wearin’ yer stuff and eatin’ yer food.”

“How’s that helpin’, stupid.”

Atsumu emphatic gesture towards his chest just made Osamu roll his eyes. “I’m generatin’ business. Sellin’ your food as fan-favourite Black Jackal #13 Miya Atsumu’s go-to snack.”

“If I wanted fan-favourite I would’ve asked Bokuto to give me a hand.”

“ _Hah_? See if I ever help you again.”

“’Helpin’’ by runnin’ around eatin’ at other places?” Osamu watched with fascination as Atsumu deflated, the fight in him flickering out. “What were you sayin’ about the cake shop earlier?”

Atsumu lightly traced a finger along the rough grain of the brick, shoulders somehow slumping even further as he muttered, “Best cake I ever had.”

“Ever, huh?” Osamu hummed as he turned that piece of information around. He might be notorious for eating anything and everything for the sake of having it ‘just once’, but Atsumu’s pickiness was legendary in their family; hell, probably in all of Amagasaki too. “Did you save me any?”

Atsumu shot his brother a guilty look. “…it was a single servin’.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kinda just enough for one person.”

“Sure.”

“Bite-sized.”

“Get to the point, ‘Tsumu. I still got a job to do.” 

The furtive look Atsumu was shooting between the wall and his brother and the frown that was slowly but surely turning into more of a pout with each passing moment told Osamu everything he needed to know. “…I want another one.”

“Then go get one.”

“Can’t.”

Osamu tugged the brim of his cap lower as he eyed his brother’s pout from the corner of his eye. He could just walk away and bear the wrath of his scorned twin. He was okay with shouldering the harsh punishment of being ignored him for an indefinite amount of time; maybe he’d get some peace and quiet for a couple days. When Atsumu heaved yet another boneshaking, earth quaking sigh, Osamu rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth, and took the bait. “…why not.”

“She was mean to me.”

“You were probably rude first, shitty ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu squawked and fluffed like an agitated bird, but for all his sputtering he didn’t spit out anything that sounded remotely like a valid excuse. Osamu grinned, picking his words carefully, composing the perfect blow to his brother’s ego. He had enough on his plate as it was; he wasn’t going to be his brother’s mediator on top of that.

“Who knew the best setter in Japan was such a wuss around girls, huh?”

“I’m not—” Atsumu preened, smiling as he sat a little taller, his confidence re-inflating as the words registered. “You’re finally admittin’ I’m the best setter, ‘Samu?”

“Only ‘cause Tobio’s not around anymore.” Osamu slapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder and groaned as he stood, twisting a few times to stretch out the tension in his spine. “Just go get your damn cake.” 

Atsumu’s protests trailed after him as he strode back through the kitchen, and he grinned, a spring in his step. Maybe pissing Atumu off had helped a little more than he thought it would. 

It took Atsumu the entire weekend to decide to venture back to _Halcyon Pastry_ , and it’d been filled with fruitless efforts to try and convince himself otherwise. He’d gone for a run to try and clear his head, choked down some god-awful green juice Bokuto claimed help fuel his mornings, whatever that meant, and played a few fun scrimmages with the boys. Hell, he’d even eaten the desserts Osamu kindly bought for him with _minimal_ complaining, but that didn’t stop his stupid twin from throwing balled up napkins at his head. Despite all of this, there was the persistent, niggling itch that just lingered in the back of his mind. Normally even at the worst times it was easy to ignore, to push aside the insidious voice that called for sweets in favour of reminding himself that he’d worked too hard to veer off his meal-plan.

 _But it’s off-season_ , the voice whispered, fluttering by his ear. _You’ve got a month off. Nobody will notice if you just have a little snack_.

It was like Atsumu was seeing his neighbourhood in _Horie_ -ward for the first time as he walked the busy streets, dark amber eyes skimming the signs that lined the street and lingering on window displays. Orange Street was packed as always, tourists and locals alike swinging shopping bags and rummaging through their wallets, holding cake boxes and bags of food that he couldn’t stop looking at. His nose was no help either, both senses working in tandem to draw his attention to bowls of shaved ice, shimmering crystal hills topped with rivers of syrup, and vibrant strawberries as red as rubies, mangos the colour of sunset, and melon so green and sweet it almost made his teeth ache. Then there was the _mitarashi dango_ , skewers of syrup-soaked mochi peeling cleanly off the grill as shopkeepers carefully flipped them. The powdery soft rows of _daifuku_ , stuffed with sweet red bean paste and coffee cream. Gelato lovingly shaped into flowers, their icy petals melting wonderfully on the tongue. Fluffy cheesecakes, gooey cheese tarts, the tantalizing spiral of swiss rolls, the smell of sugar, _hōjicha_ , syrup, fruit—it was almost too much, especially for someone who frequently claimed not to have a sweet tooth.

In spite of all this and his grumbling stomach, Atsumu found himself hesitating as he lingered outside a few cake shops, pulling back when he almost caved and went to get some Dragon’s Beard candy. He put the pudding pack back on the shelf, pushed the cake Meian’s wife gifted him away, half-eaten. To the untrained observer, it was standard: Atsumu and sweets didn’t go together well, and Rina was unphased by the lack of interest in her gift. Even if Atsumu claimed to want cake, it was normal for him to only want a little bit; surely, he would eat the rest later.

He didn’t.

He didn’t even pitch a fit when Osamu helped himself to it, nor when his brother kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “Your cravin’s are gone?”

Atsumu let out a mopey ‘hmph’, watching but not seeing the television. 

Osamu glanced from him to the baking show playing out with spectacular drama before him, and shovelled another forkful of dessert into his mouth. “Guess not. Want the rest?”

Atsumu gave the crumb-riddled plate a sidelong glance, and grunted. “S’not the same.”

“It’s _cake_.”

“It’s different.” He leaned back into his couch, eyes growing distant as he tried to properly convey the way the tang of the yuzu had nipped at his tongue in surprise, the salted caramel tempered only by the deliciously fudgy cake. It was the perfect blend of sweet, but not too sweet, new and familiar all at once. It reminded him of when he and Osamu used to dare each other to bite into the little sour fruits, their lips pinching and pursing with each bite, giggling as they tried to outlast the other. 

“Go get the stupid cake.”

“I’m a _diet_ , ‘Samu—”

“Didn’t stop you before.” Osamu rose with a clatter and a groan, shuffling to the kitchen to dutifully wash his dishes. “You keep talkin’ about this cake like it’s an ex-girlfriend or somethin’, so go get it back already.”

“You’re the worst,” Atsumu grumbled, turning back to a panicked baker crying over the state of her collapsed soufflé. 

Mondays were your longest days and your earliest days. Despite the hour there was still something soothing in methodically counting everything in your tiny storage room upstairs, weighing each bag of chocolate and flour as you dutifully recorded it. It was a blessing and a curse that you hadn’t been that busy; this way at least it meant you could stretch the shelflife of the (expensive) ingredients you’d splurged on, but it almost meant you weren’t selling as much as you wanted to. You were half-focused on your tablet, frowning as you noticed the nearly depleted store of milk chocolate, worry niggling at the back of your mind as you tried to calculate how much you’d have to spend and when the last possible day to order would be. You almost missed the shadowy figure lurking outside the door when you’d trooped downstairs.

You glanced up then did a comical double-take, jumping a foot in the air as you clutched your tablet to your chest, heart pounding. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and break in now, would they? A familiar shock of blonde hair caught your eye, and you grimaced, reluctantly walking forwards. He was a study in fitness and luxury while sporting simple, understated athletic wear, his flushed cheeks making him look healthy and hale. It made your lungs die a little bit.

“We’re closed,” you called through the glass, and pointed at the sign for good measure.

It didn’t seem to deter Atsumu as he leaned forward to peer at you, and you had to keep from telling him off for smudging the glass with his fingerprints. “You’re here awful early.”

“I’m working.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow at your hostility. “I can see that.” Atsumu shuffled from side to side, almost a little bashfully. “Think I can get another cake?”

To say you were surprised was an understatement; it was a wonder your jaw didn’t snap from how quickly it hit the floor. “You—you want another one?”

“Guess my tastebuds aren’t broken, huh?” At your flat, unimpressed look he shrugged, eyes narrowing as he forced out, “I told you it was good, didn’t I?.”

You blinked at him once, twice, and he looked expectantly at the lock, tapping his foot. “Come back when we’re open.”

“But I’m here _now_ —”

“Come back when we’re open.” Without another word you turned on your heel and left, holding onto your tablet like it was a lifeline as you tried to parse what just happened. It was a joke, right? He wasn’t supposed to be stupid enough to come back after you’d hurled verbal vitriol at him. You’d been banking on maybe a handful of awkward run-ins at _most_ , and even then, the instances you caught sight of his brother were rare; it was supposed to be the same for him. You hazarded a glance at the front when you reached the kitchen door wondering if he was still waiting, but he was gone.

The odd encounter sat in your mind all morning, throughout your opening duties, during your half-hearted greeting with Hanamaki, as you entered then re-entered your inventory numbers. It took a brief break when you panicked at the large chunk of money you’d need to spend on ordering, but it dethroned your deepest worries as you tied your apron strings, staring at the deep freezer where your sheet cakes were. 

You were so invested in your thoughts while rolling out your tart dough, you barely noticed when Makki called your name, mischief written all over his face when you finally looked his way. “You’ve uh…got a _friend_ who’s looking for you.”

Your curiosity flatlined when you saw Atsumu’s face, his embarrassed annoyance making his nose wrinkle as he pretended to be invested in the careful cuts in your baguettes. “I just asked if she was workin’. I didn’t tell you to go _get_ her.”

“You’re back,” you said, berating yourself for pointing out the obvious.

“You said to come back later, didn’tcha?” He placed the baguette back in its rightful spot, and you felt your eye twitch at the crunch it made. “Why were you here so early?”

“Inventory. Why are you here?”

“I toldja I wanted more cake.” As if to prove his intentions, he pointed at the display case. “Why don’tcha do inventory Sunday nights?”

“Sundays are slower, so I use them to build my prep—wait why am I even—” You shook your head as you tugged off your apron, mindful to fold the dirty side in. “Why does that matter to you?”

“’Samu does his Sundays,” he said with a shrug. “Figured everyone did the same thing; seems easier.”

“Well, we’re not all as business savvy as your brother,” you shot back a little bitterly, refusing to engage even as he squinted at you.

“Are you tryin’ to drive all your customers away?”

“Just you.”

Makki not so subtly placed his hands on your shoulders and shifted you to the side, trying to nudge you back to the kitchen with his foot. “What can I get for you?”

“Am I allowed to get whatever I want, or is someone gonna have somethin’ to say?” Atsumu’s holier-than-thou smile screeched against your last nerve, but Makki kicked your shin hard enough to shut your mouth. Rolling your eyes, you stalked back to the kitchen, your poor tart moulds taking the brunt of your frustration as you filled, sliced, and docked. They were baking in the oven when Makki poked his head back in, and you resolutely turned your back to him.

“I’m not talking to you right now. I’m mad at you.”

“Why, because I wouldn’t let you lose a sale?”

“Mak- _ki_ ,” you groaned, hating yourself for knowing he was right. “Why’d you make me go out there?”

He shrugged his shoulders and hopped up to sit on the table, ignoring your indignant protests. “I thought it’d be funny. And you know what? Kinda was.”

“ _Takehiro_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He obediently slid off and you furiously sanitized the area, deciding then and there you weren’t going to tell him he had flour all over the seat of his jeans. “Honestly, I figured one of you was going to say sorry, but I guess you’re both just as stubborn…or stupid.”

He flicked your forehead and laughed as you swatted at his hand and missed. “It’s almost five. Are you almost done here? There’s a new taco place on Orange Street, and I wanna try it out. Interested?” Makki waggled his eyebrows as if it that was what would convince you.

“I can’t.” Regret bubbled up inside you at the look on his face, but you pushed it aside in favour of continuing. “I still have so much stuff to do. Inventory took longer than I thought this morning and—”

“You’ve been here since six.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get a lot done—”

“And Chiyo’s gonna be here any minute now. She can take over.” You quietly shook your head and he sighed, squishing your cheeks between his hands as he gently moved your head around in a small circle. “What’s the point of hiring a part-timer if you don’t take any time off? Why’re you always pushing yourself so much? I don’t mind picking up some extra hours—”

“You’re already doing me a favour working as much as you do.”

“Why don’t you hire someone else, then? To help you.”

“I can’t afford it. I’m barely breaking even right now.” You picked nervously at your cuticles, fighting the urge to stick a nail between your teeth and nibble away like your life depended on it. You’d done decently the first little while you’d been open, offering a Christmas special, then a New Year’s special, then a little something for Valentine’s Day and White Day. The issue was generating enough income outside of the holidays, what with specialty ingredients and seasonal deals eating into your profits. But Makki didn’t come to Osaka to hear about that; he had enough problems of his own, still trying to find his way through life and figure out what path he wanted to take. Burdening him with your woes would only make it harder for him to help himself. “It’ll be fine; I promise. Maybe we can get dinner next week?” 

The look that clouded Makki’s eyes almost made you crack, made the stinging in your eyes and the stuffiness creeping in your nose a little harder to push back. He sighed and gave your face one last squeeze. “I’m holding you to that.”

The kitchen door squeaked as it swung open, Chiyo poking her head in to say a quiet hello as she smiled, the two of you quickly composing yourselves to greet the polite high schooler back. “Eat extra tacos for me.”

“I was gonna do it even if you didn’t ask.” He flicked your forehead again, lighter this time, and left you to stare at the slowly rising dough of your tart shells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:**   
>  [Here it Goes Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTAAsCNK7RA)


	3. wasabi macaron

Tuesday dawned bright and early, your phone filled with pictures of the tacos Makki had eaten, jealous complaints from Mattsun, and Iwaizumi’s dry reminder that tortillas didn’t count as a vegetable, no matter if they were technically made from corn. 

“Thank you for your purchase,” you said with a smile, bowing slightly as you handed the bag to your customer. The bell jangled and your smile grew genuine as you nodded at Mayumi, mildly self-conscious of your plain appearance in the face of her perfectly coiffed hair and sleek pantsuit. “I didn’t see you yesterday. The usual?”

“Of course!” she said with a sharp grin, tucking her incessantly buzzing phone into her purse. “Yesterday, my colleagues decided they wanted to try something different.” She rolled her eyes as you hummed in acknowledgement, flapping open the requisite seven paper bags.

“Different how?” you asked, half-distracted as you recalled the list: two _pain au chocolat_ , one croissant _ispahan_ with its mouth-watering rose-lychee-raspberry compote, three almond croissants dusted with icing sugar, and a cheddar and chive scone.

“They wanted to try the place across the street. Um…what’s it called…” She snapped her fingers trying to remember, glancing at the black and white sign outside that plagued your nightmares. “Onigiri Miya.”

You nearly squashed the scone with your bare hand. “Oh.”

“It was good, but eating onigiri in the morning just reminds me of high school. I refuse to give up your croissants.” She fished out her wallet and paid with a wink, a lump growing in your throat as you murmured a quiet thank you. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nodded and stepped around the counter to hand her the bag, bowing a little lower and hoping she’d recognize the depth of your gratitude. “Of course! Have a wonderful day at work.”

The rest of the morning passed in a slow haze, the small amount of foot traffic you received in the morning trickling to a stop once rush hour came to a halt. You were in the middle of shaping a few baguettes when the bell chimed, and you poked your head out to grin at Makki.

“You know, Onigiri Miya started selling a seasonal special.”

Your wounded pride from this morning recoiled. “If you love it so much, why don’t you go slack off there instead.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I can’t abandon a friend in need.” You didn’t miss the bag of onigiri he tucked behind the counter, pressing the dough a little harder than necessary with the heel of your hand.

“Excuse me? You’re helping me? Last time I checked _I_ wasn’t the one whining in the group chat about being bored, broke, and unemployed—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gently poked a shaped loaf, waving off your protests. “They feel fun. Can I make the cuts?”

Wordlessly you pointed at the sink and he rolled his eyes but obliged anyway, washing his hands thoroughly and pulling on an apron while you gently egg-washed the baguettes lovingly resting in their pan. He grabbed the razor from the countertop, eyes focussed as he carefully drew the blade along the dough. You understood his fascination with it; there was something deeply satisfying about picturing the way the bread would rise in the oven, each precise marking splitting open and expanding into a perfect, golden brown crust with a drool-worthy crackle. “Make sure you make the one you touched different.”

“Hm? Why?”

“I’m not selling that. You touched it; you eat it.”

He laughed quietly, obediently drawing a silly smiley face in the middle of the aforementioned dough. “If that’s my punishment, I’m doing that more often.”

“Takahiro, don’t you _dare_ —"

“Is that any way to talk to your star-employee?

“My ‘star employee’ wouldn’t shop at Onigiri Miya—”

“Hey. The Miya twins support us, so I support them.” Makki made a few wonky stars and a Christmas tree for good measure, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. 

“You don’t even know them.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking a little. “I cheered for Japan a little bit last year. I even got Miya to buy the baguette he squashed.”

Your retort died on your tongue, your hands absentmindedly brushing the final loaf for him to cut. “You did?”

He snorted, a few flicks of his wrist decorating the bread. He nodded towards the proofer and you trotted over to it, holding the door open for him to slide the tray in. “I saw the look on your face. If I didn’t, you’d probably make me pay for it.”

“Oh.” You contemplated this new information as you washed your hands, the soap bubbles slipping through your fingers just like your thoughts. “Was he upset?”

“Nah. He actually seemed kind of sorry for crushing it.”

Before you could say, “that’s not possible” the bell chimed, and Makki bumped you out of the way with his hip, splashing water over the side of the sink as he hastily scrubbed at his fingers. “Duty calls!”

You prepped through the haze of confusion, struggling to imagine Miya Atsumu willing taking the baguette instead of using it as a makeshift baseball bat to swing at the wall. Granted, maybe he’d done that as soon as he’d exited; it seemed like a totally viable option. As the day drew to a close, you cleared up and joined Makki, kicking at the back of his knees as he yelped. A gaggle of giggling schoolgirls crowded the few tables you had by the window, and their obnoxious tittering didn’t even phase you as you smiled at the sight of filled seats. They’d ordered more enough cake to break even for the day if you’d done your mental calculations correctly, their table stuffed with tiny plates bursting with colour.

“Maybe I should give them a freebie.”

Makki hummed as he unsubtly tapped away on his phone, barely sparing a look at the table. “Pretty sure between the two of us I’m the one that’s supposed to be trying to offer them free stuff. Does this make you the pervert then?”

You stepped on his foot. “They bought a lot of food, Makki, and there’s only four of them. I’m sure they’d appreciate it if—”

“There he is!” The excited declaration was all but squealed, some sort of signal that had all of you whipping your heads to look outside. Craning your neck just past their gathered heads you caught a glimpse of one Miya Osamu carefully setting up a sandwich board declaring today’s evening special, his triceps flexing in the sleeves of his black tee, his thighs looking like they were fit to burst through his pants as he crouched. 

Makki snorted once he realized what everyone was staring at like a bunch of meerkats. “Guess you are the pervert.”

“Shush,” you said purely out of reflex, assuring yourself that it was purely objective appreciation that had you your eyes along what looked like well-kept, shapely hands, and a handsome face carved by—

Unbidden, an obnoxious smirk coupled with blonde hair and smudgy fingerprints filled your mind. “Ugh.” You kicked the counter. “He’s ruined for me.”

The middle of the week was good. Just busy enough to keep the edge of anxiety away, just slow enough for you to man the front and the kitchen at the same time. You were furiously scraping cake mix out with a spatula when the door chimed, and your eyes flashed with determination. The bowl was set to the side, hands washed, apron off, hair fixed within a record five seconds as you raced to the counter, ready to sell as many pastries as you could.

“ _Irasshaimase_ …” You skidded to a halt behind the register once your brain caught up and let you know that it was, once again, Miya Atsumu standing in your store. You were torn between just turning away bake to your _biscuit jaconde_ and thanking him for…well, thanking him for what? Buying the baguette he ruined? For coming back a third time in a week for whatever demonic reason he was sure to have churning around in his pea-sized brain? “You’re here. Again.”

He pointed an unimpressed finger at you. “Are you gonna say that every time I come in here?”

“Are you planning on coming here often?”

“What if I am?”

 _I’d deliberately declare bankruptcy just to never have to see your face again_ , is what you wanted to say, but the ghost of Makki’s memory whispered _baguette_ into your ear and sealed your lips shut. 

Taking your silence as a sign of victory, Atsumu eyed your pastries again, carefully contemplating each one as if he’d never seen them before. Never mind that he had them all memorized by now, and might’ve composed a detailed schedule to organize his purchases…he was going to take his sweet time deciding and hopefully make you squirm. As he lingered on a particularly delectable fruit tart, his stomach gave a growl in agreement; he made a good call picking this for tonight’s midnight snack. His nutritionist was probably wracked with shivers, the ominous feeling of Something Wrong lingering above her head. Oh well; he’d just go on a longer run tomorrow, maybe do a few more reps at the gym if he had to. And there was _fruit_ on it; that meant it was healthy. It was decided, then. The fruit tart, and maybe he’d get an extra slice of cake, just in case ‘Samu stopped by after work tonight. If not…well. Cake went bad after one day, right? He’d have no choice but to eat it all. 

Atsumu was ready to order, but you were deliberately ignoring him (as per usual), and the sight of you looking stubbornly away from him irked him for some reason. You should at least have the decency look his way, even if your attention came armed with a plethora of barbed insults and cutting glares. But if you wanted to play it this way? Fine.

“Why’s yer stuff so expensive?”

That did the trick. You whipped your head around to look at him, disbelief making you frown. “Do you know how expensive butter is? Cream? Good quality chocolate?” 

A flicker of glee almost made it past the careful façade he put on. Nonchalantly, he pushed a few more buttons as he snorted, trying to fit as much contempt as he could into it. “Why’s it matter? Chocolate’s chocolate.”

“What— _no_. C’mere look at this.” You beckoned him closer as you pulled on a glove, sliding the case open to grab a matcha chocolate chip cookie. Pausing, you looked up at him, expression stern. “You’re paying for this, by the way.”

He was supposed to try the cookies next week, but you didn’t need to know that. “You’re robbin’ me _blind_ here.”

“Look.” Carefully you split the cookie in half, mindful of the few crumbs dropping to the counter. The soft, moist center of the cookie was laid open, making Atsumu’s mouth water. You’d had this cookie recipe for years, developing it throughout high school when Oikawa complained multiple times that you weren’t showing your friends any love or support whatsoever; no signs, no cheering, no cute good luck charms or promises to see them at inter-high. These cookies had been enough to satisfy his flippant, milk bread loving mouth, stuffing it so full he couldn’t get a word out. The edges were the warm brown of caramelized sugar and butter, the center sloping to a gentle rise that promised to be pillow soft. 

He surreptitiously wiped at the drool creeping out the corner of his mouth, feigning covering a yawn. “What am I supposed to be lookin’ at, huh?” 

“The chocolate. You asked, didn’t you?” You drew a careful finger along the lines of chocolate scattered throughout the treat, even flipping it over for him to see. “See how the chocolate melts into the cookie instead of holding its shape? That means the chocolate is made with cocoa butter, and that’s when you get chocolate that just melts onto your tongue.”

It was the first time Atsumu saw your eyes alight with something that wasn’t disdain, and a part of his annoyance shifted to more neutral territory, recognizing the glint in your eye. “You really like bakin’, don’tcha?”

“I wouldn’t do this otherwise.” You moved away from him with a frown, expertly shaking out a bag with one hand and popping the cookie inside. “This industry isn’t exactly easy. You can’t just open up a place like this on a whim; you need to work hard to be successful. That’d be like someone asking you if you _really_ like volleyball, or if you went pro just because you felt like it.”

Atsumu grinned, taking the proffered bag and holding it in his large hands like you’d handed him a gold brick. “So you _do_ know who I am.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said with a sniff, ignoring the prickle of heat warming the tips of your ears. “Makki told me. Anyway, what do you want?”

Atsumu pointed at the fruit tart and the apricot cake, nuggets of the golden coloured fruit peeking out of the cinnamon and walnut cake lovingly wrapped around it. He didn’t stop you this time when you took out a box and folded it for him, carefully placing the desserts in there under his watchful eye. You fumbled a little with the _Halcyon Pastry_ sticker you used to seal the box shut, wincing when you noticed it was just a little crooked and a little off center. His careful observation was making you nervous; there was an intensity to his scrutiny that made you want to crawl into the box yourself and seal it shut, just to avoid him.

(Meanwhile in Atsumu’s head, he decided with conviction that he’d just give ‘Samu cake another time.)

“And another baguette.” Your surprise was ill-disguised, and he chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “My teammates got into it. I only got a slice or two. …I ate the squished part, if you’re wonderin’.”

“I wasn’t.” You ducked your head to wrap the bread in paper, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. The thought of your bread seeing a dignified end softened you a little more; it was nice knowing he hadn’t just thrown it away the minute he walked out the door. He paid, you walked his purchases around the counter – something you _never_ thought you’d do – and bowed politely. He made no move to leave, however, and you had to keep from nervously tapping your foot.

“One more thing.”

What now? Hadn’t he had enough of you as you had him? “Did you want something else?” 

“Teach me how to bake.”

The box you’d been reaching for tumbled from your fingers. “W-what?”

Atsumu shifted the baguette a little higher as he shrugged, acting as if he hadn’t breached the parameters of whatever polite truce you guys had with his request. “You sound like you know what you’re doin’, and you’re interestin’ enough to listen to. ‘Sides, your cakes are good and I wanna know what you’re doin’ to 'em.”

Words failed you in spite of the number of reasons why you couldn’t and wouldn’t do that flying through your mind. And did he just _compliment_ you? Actually? Wasn’t he allergic to any semblance of human decency? Was he secretly breaking out in hives right now?

“You said Sundays are slow, right? Sound good?”

“Wait, I never agreed to this!” You held up a hand as you tried to sort through your thoughts, Atsumu watching on in amused silence. “Besides, I have a lot of work to do on Sundays—”

“So I’ll get to see you make a bunch of things.”

“—and I can’t afford to give you ingredients—”

“’M just askin’ to watch. I’m not quittin’ volleyball and becomin’ a chef, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He pointed it out like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to snap at him.

“Just _hang on_ okay, I don’t…” Irritation dug its claws into you as it clambered up your back, sitting heavy on your shoulders. “I don’t get why you want to do this.”

The way he was looking at you made you wonder if he just did this all the time. You couldn’t really fathom it, but somehow the image of pro volleyballer Miya Atsumu wandering around town and picking and choosing the company he kept as well as bullying people into doing favours for him didn’t seem too far-fetched. “I toldja, didn’t I? You make good food, and I wanna know more.”

“So ask your brother!”

It was a last-ditch effort; a final grenade lobbed his way. Without even batting an eye he knocked it back towards you, grinning when it landed at your feet. 

“Sometimes you just want somethin’ sweet.” There it was, that trademark Atsumu wink you were growing unwillingly familiar with. “See ya Sunday.”

You were thoroughly bulldozed, barely able to scrape together a faint “goodbye” as he left your shop, whistling jauntily. Maybe this was some evil master plan. Maybe he was planning on upending your kitchen, kicking bowls, breaking machines, and melting all your cutting boards in your oven. Or maybe he wouldn’t show Sunday. Maybe this was just some bizarre prank, his way of getting back at you. The more you thought about it, the more reasonable that seemed; there’d been no time set, no trading of contact info, nothing to actually put this plan of his into action. He wasn’t the type of person to just waltz in unannounced, to barge into your kitchen and demand the baking lesson start then and there!

…except he was. He totally was. 

You massaged your temples and glowered at Onigiri Miya; somehow or another, that stupid shop – the bane of your existence – had complicated your life even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:**   
>  [Lowrider.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMkwuz0iXQg)


	4. baba au rhum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...don't judge me for the ending credits I feel no shame (maybe a little shame).
> 
> I'm not a huge fan of this chapter, but it's a necessity for the rest of the story!

Sunday crept up on you. It was a cool and refreshing morning, perfect for the work you had planned out, but…

“You look tired.”

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” you confessed, stifling a yawn as you groggily pulled your apron over your head. “I had a lot on my mind.”

Hanamaki pushed the chair he was wiping down in, tossing his rag on the table. “Want a coffee? I can grab one from next door.”

“You just want an excuse to flirt with the barista, don’t you?”

“Definitely not. I just want my boss in top form,” he said with a salute, a crooked smile on his face. “I’ll be back in five. Maybe ten.”

Snorting, you fumbled with your apron strings. He was definitely going to flirt, but a pick-me-up sounded nice even if it came with an ulterior motive. Popping your bandana on, you finally began your day. You flew through your par list, making neat, organized notes in order of importance, doing your best with your waning concentration. Makki returned with coffee when you were well into tempering chocolate, but when he continued with the opening routine with a small smile on his face and a bounce to his step, you couldn’t really find it in yourself to be annoyed at him. Besides, your energy needed to be conserved for a far more pressing matter.

You kept eyeing the front through the small window in the kitchen door, glancing at it nearly every time you happened to pass by. None of the Sunday customers had the blonde hair and smarmy face you were looking for, but somehow that made it worse. 

“It’d almost be better if he did show up,” you muttered to yourself, carefully peeling chocolate decorations off their acetate sheets, handling each with care to avoid snapping a ring in two, or breaking a feather stem off. By the time the day rolled into mid-afternoon you’d written Atsumu off, equal parts relieved and annoyed. His hypothesized visit had held at least 30% of your attention hostage all day, and it showed in the little amount of product you’d managed to put out.

That’s what you would blame as you idly watched your croissant _détrempe_ mix, your butter already rolled and ready to go. Rolling the dough out in quick, efficient strokes, you barely registered the sound of the bell ringing, Makki’s surprised exclamation, and a warm, drawling tenor voice that had been haunting you into the wee hours of the night. 

Makki didn’t say anything when the kitchen door swung open, but you paid it no mind. Maybe the handful of times you’d drunkenly ranted about the finicky nature of croissant dough had finally sunk through his skull; it wasn’t your finest moment equating butter to volleyball blocking, but perhaps it had done the trick. 

“It’s real quiet in here.” Atsumu was leaning on the counter beside you as if he always did this, watching as your fingers stilled partway through sealing the dough. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Hey! You can’t just walk in here like that!”

“Why not?”

“Why—” You spluttered as you struggled for words, shifting the croissant dough uselessly through the air. “Listen, pudding head—”

“ _Puddin’_ head?! I pay a lotta money to look this good—”

“You paid a lot of money to look like a dessert.”

“Naw, I ain’t a dessert.” He winked at you, that same cheesy wink he’d given you when you first met. “I’m a whole damn meal.”

“…get out.”

“C’mon, I’m jokin’. Tell me what’s goin’ on, _chef_.”

You took in a deep breath, and gently set your dough to the side. “First of all, don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“It just sounds gross coming out of your mouth. Second,” you continued, raising your voice to talk over his bellyaching, “you’re not wearing the proper uniform.”

“What, like you?” He eyed your shirt and loose pants with suspicion. “We’re pretty much wearin’ the same thing.”

You held back the lecture about him potentially tracking in bacteria with his street clothes and the one about his fancy running shoes definitely not being the same as your non-slips. He wasn’t doing any work, so it didn’t really matter, but part of you really wanted to know if he was the kind of guy who could rock Crocs and make them look cool. “You’re not wearing a hat, for starters.”

“So?”

“So when someone complains about finding a hair in their food are you going to take responsibility?” He opened and closed his mouth for a bit, giving you enough time to find and throw a hairnet at him. “Here.” 

It was like you threw garbage at him, with how scandalized he looked. “ _Hah_? No way!”

“Then get out.”

“You’re _bakin’_ , not workin’ at a cafeteria—” He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, his upper lip curling. “I’m not wearin’ this.”

You glowered at him. “No hairnet, no baking lessons.”

He glared right back. “Fine by me!”

Thirty seconds later Atsumu was trailing behind you as you worked, every end of his bleached hair tucked immaculately underneath the hairnet. He was thankful you’d been avoiding Osamu like the plague, for whatever reason; he’d never live it down if his twin saw what he looked like right now. He watched as you picked up the croissant dough like you were holding a baby, neatly placing it down on what looked like the world’s shortest conveyor belt under the world’s tiniest bridge, pressing a button to run it back and forth.

“What’re you doing?”

You carefully made a book fold, lining up the edges perfectly. “Sheeting.”

“What? Shittin’?”

“ _Sheeting_.” Your lips wobbled upwards in spite of yourself, and you quickly plastered a scowl on. “It’s easier than rolling out the dough by hand.”

Atsumu silently watched as you made a single fold, turning the dough to run it through the machine again. “Why’re you doin’ it so many times?”

“To make a nice crumb texture.” You sighed at the blank look on his face, motioning him to the side with your foot. You carefully draped the finished product across your arms and took a step forward when Atsumu leaned in, nearly sticking his nose into the dough and knocking you backwards at the same time.

“Smells nice!” How he was acting like he hadn’t just invaded your personal space was beyond you, but the butter took precedence over the nervous flutter in your stomach. “What’s crumb texture?”

“It’s like…” You hummed as you thought, grabbing your ruler and making quick, precise notches where you wanted to make your cuts. “When you cut a croissant in half, you know how you have all those bubbles on the inside?”

Atsumu thought back to every croissant he’d ever eaten and was faced with the realization that he’d just always peeled it apart, starting from the outside layer. He’d been called blasphemous, barbaric, and all manner of rude names because of this, all while he shoved the whole thing in his mouth as fast as he could, usually to the chagrin of whoever was within a two-foot radius as crumbs flew everywhere. Maybe that’s what you meant by ‘crumb texture’? He slowly nodded his head. “…sure.”

“That’s from all these super thin layers of butter between the dough. Look here.” You pointed to one of the long, skinny triangles you’d cut, and he blinked once he got closer. Sure enough they were there, a delicate stack of rich yellow butter sandwiched between the pleasantly yeasty dough you’d made. “When they melt during baking, they create the air bubbles and spaces in the croissant while the dough rises and expands. The nicer your crumb layering, the neater the texture is. That way you don’t have any weird, oversized holes, or your croissant isn’t too dense.”

“Seems easy,” he said with a flippancy that made your ego sting. 

“It’s not. If your butter is too hard, it splits when you’re sheeting and—” Atsumu laughed, and you huffed, elbowing him out of the way to cut another croissant. “ _Sheeting, not shitting_. If it’s too soft it sinks into your dough and your croissants get dense.”

“It’s kinda like settin’.” Noticing your curious glance, Atsumu beamed eager as always for a chance to talk about volleyball. “If your sets are too low or too high, or too weak or strong, your hitters can’t get ‘em. ‘S kinda like your bakin’; you gotta make it easy for ‘em to enjoy without thinkin’ about all the work you put into it.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes; it was amazing how you managed to attract volleyball nuts no matter what city you were in. “Sure. That’s one way to think of it.”

He deflated at your lackluster response, sulking just a little bit as he watched you carefully roll the croissants up, perfect crescent staircases lined up in a row. Or maybe medal podiums. He perked up and leaned a little closer to you, convinced he’d found the personal fact to end all personal facts. “Do you watch volleyball?”

“Nope.” …man, he really looked like a kicked puppy right now, or maybe a toddler on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Proper etiquette grabbed hold of you once more, giving you a firm shake; just because you guys had started off on the wrong foot didn’t mean you had to be rude every single time you saw him; especially when he seemed like he was extending an olive branch. “I had some friends that played it in high school, and two of them still do.”

Imagining Oikawa’s reaction to you summing up his career with words “he still plays volleyball” made you smile a little bit, and you mentally filed the insult away for later. Seeing the tiny quirk of your lips Atsumu pounced, holding onto the smile like a lifeline. “Oh yeah? What’re their names? Maybe I know ‘em.”

You rolled another croissant with a swift twist of your fingers. “Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tooru.”

Three things happened in quick succession in Atsumu’s brain. There was the initial joy that came once he realized he actually knew the people you were talking about; it’d make his segue into his humble-brag about playing at the Olympics that much easier. Then annoyance crept in, staining the edges of his excitement in a melancholic blue; how’d you know who Hajime was, but didn’t have a clue about him? And the last one, well.

“Oh yeah.” It felt like you turned towards him in slow motion, slowly unsheathing your claws to deliver retribution for his ‘easy’ comment earlier. The edges of your smile were sharp, carving away the faux-sweetness clinging to your voice. “Makki said something about you being on the Olympic team. Must’ve sucked losing against Argentina.” 

His hope of impressing you was punctured with a swift pop, bursting like a bubble-gum balloon stretched too far past its limit. At least when you were insulting each other there was some semblance of balance, but this? It made him feel sour. “I thought you said you didn’t watch volleyball.”

You made quick work of wiping down your work-space, sweeping the leftover croissant dough into a storage bin. “I don’t, but they’re my friends. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you won’t do it. I’m sure you’d do the same for people you care about.”

The brief shadow that crossed your face wasn’t difficult to notice, but as tactless as Osamu made him out to be, Atsumu knew he wasn’t really all that bad at knowing when to keep his mouth shut. …anymore, that was. 

(Idly, he recalled losing his temper the first time he’d met you, after openly insulting your work.)

…he was getting better.

Atsumu clapped sharply, startling you out of whatever funk you’d slipped into as he rubbed his hands together. “What’re you gonna show me next? D’you gotta make more of that apricot cake or somethin’?” 

You stepped around him to grab a broom, throwing your rag into the hamper. “My day is done. You showed up late, so you have nobody to blame but yourself.”

He looked at you, betrayed. “I had things to do! Plus, it’s not like you told me what time to come ‘round.”

“You could’ve asked.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Gimmie your number.” 

His words struck like lightening. You’d figured he’d be too stubborn to ask and had planned on finishing as early as possible next week just to reduce the amount of time you’d have to spend with him. He was loud and _distracting_ , and those were the last two things you needed in your kitchen. “No way. I barely even know you!”

There was a brief, tense moment as he eyed you contemplatively, then Atsumu stuck out a hand and wiggled his fingers impatiently, just like he had for the fork a week ago. “Then gimmie your phone and I’ll give you my number.”

“I don’t—we’re not friends!”

His fingers wiggled harder, as if that would somehow change your mind. “What are we then?”

“Strangers? Mortal enemies?” His eyes flattened to fix you with an unimpressed stare. “Student and teacher?”

His eyebrows wiggled in tandem with his fingers. “You got a thing for roleplayin’ or somethin’?”

You backed away instinctively, embarrassment flooding your face as you reflexively covered your phone with your hands, cupping the apron pocket you housed it in protectively. “That’s the opposite of what I was trying to say!”

Atsumu had already moved on, eyes zeroing in on your pockets as he took a warning step forward, his voice dropping a few notes to become deeper, velvety, as he said, “Don’t make me come get it from ya.”

It was like there was static between your ears; you felt like you’d been jostled out of alignment. Perhaps sensing your guard was down he snapped his fingers, and you unthinkingly handed him your phone, the broom nearly slipping from your hands as you did so. What had that been? It was like something in the timbre of his voice had resonated in you, made your legs a little weak, gave your heart a little flutter—

But for Atsumu? Really? You watched him as he tapped in his contact info; sure, maybe he did have that stupid pudding hair, but it worked for him. Not to mention he did share the same face as Osamu and weeks of lingering at the window to catch a glimpse of the handsome onigiri owner were testament to how attractive you found both of them. There were some subtle differences, but none of them were unpleasant. Before you could delve deeper in your self-imposed game of _Spot the Difference_ Atsumu was tossing you your phone as you yelped, waving a hand behind him as he gave you that shit-eating grin you were becoming increasingly familiar with.

“I’ll text you,” he said with a flippant wave of his hand as he stepped outside. 

Makki’s eyebrows rose as he peeked at you through the swinging door and he smiled, looking every bit the mirror-image of Atsumu’s stupid demonic expression. “You’re coming back?” 

You groaned, pocketing your phone. As attractive as Atsumu might be, there was one glaring caveat: he was annoying as fuck. Their voices were muffled as you swept a little more forcefully than necessary, bending broom bristles and muttering obscenities under your breath the whole while. The telltale creak of the kitchen door had your every nerve on edge, and you could feel your shoulders scrunching towards your ears, body automatically going on the defensive. You could sense the satisfied, teasing aura surrounding Makki without having to look at him.

“So he’s coming _back_ ,” he drawled, tapping his fingers along the counter. “You want me to take off for a bit next week? Flip the sign on the door?”

You clattered the dustpan along the floor louder than necessary. “It’s not like that.” 

“Yeah, sure. I’m a little jealous you’re teaching him and not me—”

“Nope. We’re not doing this.” You tossed the broom in the corner, hands on your hips as you glowered at him. “You know why.”

“C’mon, I’m better now—”

“Dick jokes. Dick drawings. Moaning every time you filled a cream puff. The same stupid jokes about me having ‘nice buns’.” You counted these off on your fingers as you spoke, watching Makki’s smile grow wider and wider, even as he struggled to act even remotely chagrined. 

“Alright, alright I get it.” He hummed as he hoisted himself up on the counter, ignoring your frustrated sigh as your glare grew sharper. “Oikawa’s gonna be sad you’re interested in a pro volleyball player that isn’t him.”

“I’m not _interested_ in him,” you shoved at the small of his back until he obediently hopped off the counter, “so don’t tell them I am.”

“I won’t,” he said, phone in his hands as he dodged your curious glances his way. 

Suspiciously, your phone began to ping incessantly. You dug into your apron and watched the group chat going crazy as message after message from a presumably offended Oikawa flooded the screen, squeezing the screen so hard you were surprised it didn’t crack. “ _Mak. Ki._ ”

Luckily for him the bell jangled and he grinned, swiftly walking backwards towards the door. “Whoops. Duty calls!”

You groaned as you watched the flood of messages continue, slumping against the counter as you contemplated the many ways you could dispose of his body after killing him in cold blood. Another ping startled you from your casual daydreams of first-degree murder, your heart skipping an involuntary beat as a number you didn’t recognize flashed on screen.

**[unknown]: teach me somethin’ good next week**

**[sent]: no**

**[unknown]: youre not ignoring me tho  
[unknown]: ill see u next week**

Your headache increased seven-fold. He was annoying. Rude. Loud. Distracting. 

Then you thought about the way he looked at you, serious and maybe a little heated, the way he’d stepped closer, broad shoulders taking up more room than they should in that well-fitting jacket he had on. The way he still looked delectable even with the hairnet on, the worn, wide, long-fingered hand he’d held out to you. That stupidly rich voice, the barest hint of a teasing growl in the back of his throat as he stared you down.

Biting your lip, you shoved your phone back in your pocket. Maybe him coming back wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [She's Kinda Hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFz1gCZSmdE)


	5. mille-feuille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed and dropped a kudos! I appreciate every single one of you! It means a lot to know people are enjoying this. :)

Weeks passed with this strange routine, Atsumu texting you a string of croissant emojis you were sure he found _hilarious_ on Saturday night, his promise to show up for Sunday. You’d learned the hard way that ignoring them meant _more_ of them, and ignoring those meant he’d show up bright and early Sunday morning purely out of spite, just to chatter your ear off about anything and everything while you worked. It was like a never-ending narration of how this person on YouTube didn’t do it like that, or that side of the dough was uneven. Today, however, took the cake. 

“Your arms look like they’re gonna snap off.”

You nearly dropped the Hobart mixing bowl on your foot, grudgingly grateful Atsumu had helped in the nick of time. He hoisted it effortlessly onto your work station, holding it still while you scraped the bread dough out. 

“Don’tcha work out?” He poked one of your arms, undoubtedly feeling for muscle that he probably already knew wasn’t there. 

“I don’t have time.”

Without being asked he walked the bowl to your dishwasher, putting it through. “You need to get this fixed, y’know,” he grumbled as he opened and closed the door a few times, waiting for the sensors to align just right. “Everyone has time. When are your days off?”

You rolled your eyes, flapping a plastic sheet over the brioche you’d made. “I don’t have days off. I’m the only baker so I have to work every single day.”

“What?” He handed you your scale. “Every day? Can’tcha hire someone to help you with bakin’?”

“I don’t have the money for that.”

Atsumu was only half-listening as you walked him through cutting and weighing the dough, watching as you broke it down from one large pieces into several smaller ones with practiced ease. He thought about how tired Osamu was the first month he’d been open, scrambling to cover shifts and cook before he managed to hire on cooks and waitstaff; he couldn’t fathom how you were still standing after doing that for months now, with no real end in sight. Now that he was looking a little closer he could see the exhaustion sitting in the inward curve of your shoulders and the puffy bags beneath your eyes; his naivety in assuming that was just how you normally looked, even well-rested, curdled sour in his stomach. 

“Why don’tcha advertise more?” He grabbed a few pieces of dough, resisting the urge to lean over and smell them. Something about the pleasantly yeasty scent that came with baking bread just made his neurons fire like nobody’s business. “You got Instagram? Everyone’s puttin’ their stuff up on there.”

You shrugged, choosing to watch his hands as he rolled the dough between the palm of his hand and the counter like you’d taught him, his long, immaculately kept fingers slowly curling inwards to round it. “I do, but I’m not good at stuff like that, like— Here. Just look.”

He accepted your proffered phone with only minimal complaints from you about the butter coating his palms, frowning as he surveyed the sparse account. “The last time you posted was five months ago. Wasn’t that when you opened?”

“Yup.”

“You’re gonna hafta post more than that.”

“I _know_ that, but I don’t have the time.” You dried your hands, resolutely staring at the brioche before you.

“That’s why I’m sayin’ you hafta hire someone.”

“I need to sell more if I want to hire someone else. To get more business I need to advertise more, but I need more business to give myself the time to advertise.” You slumped a little as your hands slowed, shifting brioche to baking tray. “It’s not that easy, and I’m…just tired.”

From the way you wilted and tried to change the subject, he knew you’d let something slip you normally wouldn’t. If there was anything he’d learned about you over the past month, it was that you were stubborn, maybe as much as he was. You both tended to try and carry the world on your shoulders, refusing outside help, insisting on relying on your own strength and talent to see how far it would carry you. The difference was while he might insist on running ahead, he’d at least glance over his shoulder and yell at his teammates to hurry and catch up. You…had nobody else by your side. Instead, you were struggling along, eyes fixed on some distant point well past the gloom that surrounded you. It was kind of admirable in a way, but looking at you now and really noticing the grim set of your mouth and your eyes seemingly growing duller every day, it was clear to him that burn-out wasn’t far off. 

He was carefully brushing egg wash on the tiny brioche balls as you watched when the idea sparked. “Do you live around here?”

“That’s kind of a creepy thing to ask.” At his unimpressed look, you groaned. “Yeah, not too far. It takes me like fifteen minutes to walk to work.” 

“You finish early on the weekends, right?”

“…what do you want?”

His defence mechanism kicked in. “Who said I wanted anythin’?”

“…Miya…”

“You’re comin’ with a me for a run Saturdays after work. I’ll come grab ya.” 

The pearl sugar clutched in your hand crunched at his words and you winced, hastily sprinkling it on the bread before you did any more damage. “Where did that come from?”

“You’re gonna need somethin’ to do other than bakin’, and fresh air fixes everythin’.” He poked your forehead, laughing at the expression on your face. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow. Gotta make sure you can keep up.”

“That’s not really the issue here!” You skimmed his body, the wide chest you’d accidentally run into on more than one occasion (before he realized that the world didn’t revolve around him and he might need to slide out of the way once or twice), the well-defined arms you knew were hidden under the long sleeves of his shirt (whoever convinced him to push them up to his elbows deserved an award), down to the way the apron was neatly cinched at his impossibly narrow waist.

He preened under your observation, bracing a hand on the counter as he posed. “You checkin’ me out?”

“Don’t be stupid.” You stomped over to the oven a little quicker than you needed to, cursing him for following when he reached an arm around you and opened the door. “You’re shaped like a Dorito.”

“Is that a good thing?” He didn’t budge, crowding you by the oven, and you blamed the convection for the warmth radiating through your chest.

“I hate Doritos.”

“You’re just ice cold, aren’tcha.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, making a face at his greasy hand once he realized his mistake. You figured he’d dropped the laughable idea of being running buddies when it didn’t make a reappearance for the rest of the day, busying yourself with teaching him how to evenly slice the buns in half lengthwise, convincing him not to drink the sakura syrup, and yelling at him to stop stealing the occasional sneaky spoonful of the matching sakura cream. All in all, it wasn’t a bad morning, and you even let him eat the wonky _tarte Tropezienne_ you were sure he’d cut and filled weirdly on purpose. 

“How come he gets to eat stuff?” Makki grumbled as he took the tray of pastries from you, dutifully restocking the empty space as a few customers wandered in. 

“He doesn’t try to drown himself in _karaage_ and beer every single night,” you shot back, nodding politely at the people in your shop. “I’m just saving you from yourself, you know.”

“You sure you’re not just playing favourites?” The look he gave you was a little too knowing, his half-smirk making your stomach flip nervously. 

“You know you’re my favourite,” you cooed, snatching the tray from him like he owed you money. 

“Make sure you don’t tell him that.” Without waiting for a response, he smiled and greeted the first person in line, leaving you effectively dumbstruck. Don’t tell Atsumu? Don’t tell Atsumu what? 

The kitchen door swung shut behind you as you contemplated the volleyball player standing in the middle of your kitchen, chatting on his phone and lazily flipping through your recipe cards. It wasn’t like you guys had anything particularly special going on; you both just liked annoying each other and at some point, it’d led to this weird arrangement. _He led it there_ , a tiny voice whispered at you, _wonder why that was?_

Atsumu groaned as he hung up. “I gotta go. Somethin’ about doin’ ‘Samu a favour and goin’ on a store-run for him, whatever that means.”

You nodded, a little too quickly as you banished the strange thoughts clouding your mind. They were frivolous, just a product of Makki being Makki and bugging you like the little shit he was. “That’s fine.”

Grabbing some chocolate from your _pre-weighed bowl_ and ignoring the heated way you uttered those three words at him, he pinched your cheek. “I’ll see you Saturday after you’re done. Don’t even think about tryna get out of this!” 

“Miya, I don’t have running shoes!”

He glanced down at your kitchen shoes, slowly dragging his eyes back up to meet yours in a way that made your body tingle. “Then I guess you’re runnin’ in those.”

Your screech was muffled by the door, but it still made Atsumu chuckle. He nodded and gave a few friendly smiles to the people that recognized him, signed a few autographs, took a few photos. He dutifully picked up nori for ‘Samu, because he “owed him one, ya scrub”. He walked home, ate the perfectly balanced dinner he was supposed to, drank the three cups of water he still needed for the day, and stretched because Omi-omi said somethin’ salty about scorin’ the first service ace at their practice scrimmage next week. 

It wasn’t until later when he was lying in bed scrolling through Instagram despite Inunaki bitchin’ about blue light ruinin’ your skin or somethin’ that he stopped, deftly typing and tapping his way back to your pastry page. It didn’t take long for him to find your personal page, the frequency of the posts as lacking as _Halcyon Café_ ’s, not that it stopped him from skimming the contents anyway. He grinned when he saw a photo of you at your high school graduation, smiling through the tears tracking down your cheeks, sandwiched between four equally happy boys. He easily recognized Makki, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction when he noticed Iwaizumi pushing Oikawa away with a firm hand to the face. You looked happy, infinitely more carefree, and maybe it wasn’t fair of him to compare the you from now with the you from however many years ago, but it troubled him a little how worn out you looked today. 

He stared at his ceiling like it had all the answers he needed. _There’s nothin’ wrong with wantin’ to help a friend out._ With that in mind he went back to _Halcyon Café_ , and tapped the follow button. _Easy,_ he thought with a grin, and turned off the light. 

Your week was suspiciously Atsumu-free. He didn’t pop in after practice like he normally would, nor did you see him loitering around in _Onigiri Miya_. The stubborn part of you grew louder as the week passed, digging its heels into the ground and yelling that he of all people didn’t get to dictate your schedule! What did it matter if you didn’t do anything outside of work? You were doing what you loved, what you did best and that's all that mattered! Another part chided you and reminded you to be grateful someone was looking out for you; he had your best interests at heart, and some fresh air would do you good. The last part and undoubtedly the biggest, whiniest, most vocal of them all just wanted to know why he had to suggest _exercise_ as your newest hobby. The last time you’d been running was…was…

…maybe after that day you’d gone to the beach with the boys and Mattsun’s girlfriend at the time, immediately feeling inadequate as sculpted volleyball muscles and only moderately neglected volleyball muscles revealed themselves from underneath loose-fitting t-shirts and baggy shorts. Oikawa even appeared to have taken the Flattykawa jokes Makki hurled at him relentlessly to heart, doing a few too many squats and jumps to warm up for beach volleyball as if he had a point to prove. (He did. You didn’t let him live it down.)

As the clock ticked closer and closer to 6pm, you kept eyeing the door nervously, so on edge that Chiyo asked you multiple times if you were okay. 

“If you’re sure…” She was too polite to push the matter further, even as her forehead creased with worry. 

Time steadily crept forward, Chiyo sneaking furtive glances your way as you helped her tidy up. You breathed a sigh of relief when closing time came and went, cashing out as fast as you could in hopes of scampering off home, just on the off-chance Atsumu came through. 

The bell jangled abruptly and you froze, reluctantly looking up. Chiyo’s face was aflame, eyes as wide as saucers as Atsumu smiled and waved at her, pointing at the lock. She looked nervously between you and him, waiting for some sort of signal for what to do. You almost told her just to leave him locked out there, that the two of you would sneak out the back, but he was carrying a stack of boxes in his arms and your curiosity won you over.

“Hey!” He nodded at Chiyo and she wrung the rag she was holding so tightly you were surprised it didn’t rip in two. “You almost done?”

You looked at the handful of ¥1 coins in your hand. “…you made me forget where I was.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. He plopped the stack of boxes on your counter, and you forgot your spot again as you stared at them.

“What’re those for?”

“Hm?” He patted the top box, boyish excitement painting his features. “Well, you said you didn’t have runnin’ shoes, but I didn’t know what size you were…so I bought three. I’ll just return whatever you don’t want.”

You gaped at him, the clinking of a few coins slipping from your hand knocking you out of your stupor. “I bought some.”

“What?”

“I…bought running shoes.” For some reason you couldn't meet his eyes, choosing instead to burn a hole through the middle shoe box. “I figured you wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer so…”

“Oh!” Atsumu awkwardly scratched the side of his nose, a bashful pink dusting the high points of his cheeks. “Makes sense. Guess I shoulda asked first…” He scooped them up, peeking at you over the top box. “I’m gonna drop ‘em off at ‘Samu’s. Be back in a bit.”

Chiyo scrambled to get the door for him, playing with the strings of her aprons once he’d left as she looked at you, struggling for words. Eventually she settled on, “Your boyfriend is very handsome.”

“He’s not…!” You cleared your throat, desperately trying to calm your breathing and lose the embarrassing squeak in your voice. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s—” 

_A friend? My business rival’s twin brother? My unexpected baking student? A pain in my ass? Just some guy?_

“…he’s an acquaintance,” you tacked on hastily, turning back to the till. 

The label still didn’t sit right with you, and it bothered more than you thought it would. It lingered while you finally finished balancing the till, while Atsumu trailed behind you as you did a final onceover (all while lamenting the fact that his nutritionist had found out one way or another that he’d been sneaking dessert), while you flicked off the lights and told him to wait while you changed into your running gear. 

You forgot all about it when you were huffing and puffing five minutes later, struggling to keep up with his stupidly long legs and his stupidly strong respiratory system and stupidly athletic body. Your lungs felt like they were on fire, and you were barely managing to drag your legs forward, each step seeming heavier than the last.

“C’mon, don’t give up now,” he said disgustingly cheerful, not a hair out of place and not even remotely out of breath. After thirty minutes of this you came to a stuttering halt, bent over as you gasped for air. 

“Mi…ya…wait…!”

“What was that?” He was jogging backwards now, the smarmy bastard, cupping a hand around his ear. “Can’t hear you if you’re not gonna come over here.”

“At…su…mu!” you wheezed, giving him a very sweaty cut-eye. 

“We’re on first-name basis now? Must be pretty serious.” He went back over to you, surveying you with a critical eye. “You only ran 3K and you crumpled like a cheap lawn chair.” 

“Well at least I don’t look like I build IKEA furniture backwards!” you gasped out, trying to get control over the taiko drum that’d replaced your heart.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on.” He left and came back in a flash, pressing a bottle of water into your hands that you greedily guzzled down.

“You’re being weirdly nice today.”

He took a thoughtful sip of his own water. “You called me by my first name; figured that meant we were friends now.”

You were grateful you were already sweaty, because your nerves would’ve made you start pouring buckets right about now. “W-what?”

“Don’t sound too excited ‘bout it,” he groused, knocking his arms against yours.

You downed half your water to distract yourself, waiting until you were certain the weird feeling in your chest was gone. “You do this every day?”

“I have to.” He bopped the bottle against your head. “Normally I go on speed runs, but I figured you’d kill me if I made you do that.” 

“…you’re not wrong.” He looked like he was about to suggest you start running again, and you hastily asked, “What else do you do.”

“Um…” He’d taken to balancing his bottle on top of your head as you glared at him. “Well, I have practice with the team Monday to Friday. We run drills, play practice games, that sorta stuff. Weights and runnin’ three times a week, HIIT trainin’ the other four.”

You’d stilled in spite of yourself, his water bottle perched on the crown of your head as you absorbed this information. “Don’t you ever get sick of it? Having someone watch what you eat, or spending so much time working out?”

“Why would I? It’s makin’ me better, isn’t it? How else am I gonna be the best if I don’t work for it?” 

He said it so matter-of-factly that it made your head spin. Atsumu looked and acted like the kind of person who know he was his first priority; he had the easy, self-assured air of innate confidence. “I’m kind of jealous of you.”

He snatched the bottle off your head and posed with it, like he was filming a commercial instead of standing in the middle of a park with you. “Huh? Is it my good looks? Natural talent?”

“…I’m taking it back.”

“C’mon, you can’t say somethin’ like that then leave it! Gimmie a break, here!” 

“You know what you want to make yourself happy, and you just go for it.” You gently tapped your bottle against his chest. “It’s like you’ve got this laser focus that tells you ‘this is the best choice for me’, or ‘this is what I need to make myself better’.” 

Atsumu prised the empty bottle from your hand, fingers brushing yours as you swallowed thickly. “Everyone has that, don’t they? Their drive to be the best. It’s like you and makin’ up all those things you sell, or goin’ in early and leavin’ late. I’m not sayin’ I’m better than everyone…there’s lots of people out there who’re just a little bit faster or stronger.”

The air felt a little different, a little more serious. Pulling out a smile, you took a careful step back. “Like Oikawa?”

“Ahhhh, don’t bring that guy up,” he whined, clutching at his hair as you laughed. “Somethin’ about him just makes me mad. But…” He tapped your empty bottles together, regarding them solemnly. “I’m doin’ my best every day and pushin’ myself, so I can’t really be mad ‘cause I know I’ll pass them eventually.” 

“That’s ambitious.”

“You’re talkin’ to the top setter in Japan right now, didn’tcha know?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” You crossed your arms and started walking, laughing a little along with him.

“Why’re you bringin’ this up? We’re supposed to be runnin’, not sharin’ our feelings.” 

You almost tripped over your own feet, stumbling through your thoughts and settling on a vague, “I just kinda wish I was a little more like you. I…made some stupid decisions in the past, putting myself last.”

Any other person would’ve taken that as a sign to soften their approach, to ask if you were okay, if you wanted to talk about. They would’ve followed it up with a gentle, ‘But if you don’t want to, that’s okay! Just know I’m here for you!’ But this was Atsumu, and so the words that came out of his mouth were, “Like what.”

“I’m not telling you!”

“Then why’d you bring it up in the first place, stupid!”

The two of you bickered all the way back to your place in _Tennoji_ -ward, with him threatening to drag you out on another run tomorrow if you didn’t “stop bein’ so sour”, and maybe it was the lingering endorphins, but you didn’t stop smiling the rest of the night.

Back at his apartment, watered, fed, and showered, Atsumu was lounging in an armchair with his towel draped over his head while Osamu was flopped facedown on the couch, mumbling something about stupid new hires that drop perfectly good onigiri on the ground and then add insult to injury by _kicking_ them clear across the floor.

“Hey ‘Samu,” Atsumu interrupted, too busy with his phone to acknowledge the flinty stare his twin gave him. “How do you take a nice photo?”

“With your face? You can’t.”

“Of _food_ , dumbass.”

“Why’re you takin’ pictures of food?” There was a beat, and Osamu propped himself up on the arm of the couch, only a little accusatory when he said, “You never take any pictures of mine.”

“Quit whinin’, you’ve got a million on your own page. ‘Sides, I have some pictures of your stuff on my insta—”

“Yeah, of my _hat_ , and that’s only ‘cause you thought you looked good, stupid ‘Tsumu.”

“Forget it,” Atsumu grumbled, gently towelling his hair as he wandered into the kitchen. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

Osamu flipped onto his back, tapping his fingers on his stomach as he tried to wrack his brain for why his idiot brother had suddenly decided to post photos of something he considered ‘off brand’ on his Instagram. They’d had several petty, eyerolling arguments about it, Atsumu yelling that there was no point in orderin’ food just to look at it, and Osamu arguing that presentation was just as important as flavour.

“You eat with your eyes,” he’d insisted, and he’d been told,

“If you wanna eat with your eyes so bad I’ll shove your face in your plate.”

Briefly he remembered that bakery across the street…what was it called again? Halogen? Hawaiian? His eyes grew heavy, the weight of the day sinking into his bones and he gave up as he began to doze. Atsumu hadn’t mentioned it lately anyway; there’s not way that could be it.

At the dining table Atsumu grinned to himself as he sent off his customary row of croissant emojis, laughing when he got a **-_-** in response, propping his chin in his hand. _Wonder what we’re makin’ tomorrow_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Thinkin Bout You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JHu3b-pbh8)
> 
> I made a writing blog! It's still fairly new so there isn't much to see, but if you're interested pop by, drop an ask, whatever whatever! Come yell at me on tumblr @[chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com/)


	6. mango pudding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!!!! Over 100 kudos! Thank you so much to everybody who read this and has been keeping up! I'm so glad you're all enjoying this incredibly self-indulgent story haha!
> 
> You might have noticed that there's a chapter count now so yes, this story has been fully completed on my end! I will still be posting weekly to give myself time to edit and come back to different points in the story to fix coherence/cohesiveness, but updates will always be on Mondays, EST time!
> 
> If you wanna yell at me about this fic but are shy, or want to talk to me about anything else, I've linked my tumblr at the end of the chapter. 💕
> 
> Kiss kiss kiss I hope y'all enjoy this ride with me! 😊

“A little birdy told me you had a late-night visitor.”

“Go wipe the windows instead of being cryptic,” you replied crisply, folding meringue into your chocolate cake mix. 

“The open is done, boss.” A blatant lie, but he’d do them later; there were more important things to address right now. Makki’s smile turned slightly predatory. “You can’t avoid me.”

You turned your back to him, grunting when he just moved in front of you. “…who’s the little birdy.”

“Chiyo.”

“You’re texting a high schooler?” You gave him a scandalized look. “That’s pretty suspicious of you—"

He pinched your nose between his fingers, squeezing until you settled. “Stop avoiding the subject.”

“Atsumu came by,” you admitted slowly, nasally. 

“Oh? Atsumu?” He waggled his eyebrows, shaking your head around by your nose. “If we’re talking suspicious, that’s at least three times worse then me and Chiyo.”

You pulled his fingers off your face, pouring the cake batter onto the waiting tray. “We don’t have a ten-year age gap, Makki.”

“I’m not _that_ gross. She was texting me all worried, saying she was afraid you didn’t have enough time to go see your friends and that she could work more if you wanted, but she didn’t know how to ask.”

Your heart softened. “What’d you say?”

“I told her I’m your only friend and you don’t need to see anybody else, so you’re fine.”

“ _You didn’t._ ”

“I’m kidding!” He grabbed the tray from you, popping it in the pre-heated oven. “But if you do want some time with loverboy—”

“You’re the worst.”

“—all you gotta do is ask. I can come in, help you build your prep, then you can take a day off. Or…” The way he trailed off made it clear you weren’t going to like what he was about to say next, “…you could close for a day.”

“No. I need the money.”

“A day’s not going to kill you, you know. We’re doing better now that cherry blossom viewing is in full-swing, and you’re selling enough to shut for just _one day_ —”

“What if that’s the day I need most? What if it ends up being a crucial moment where I could’ve had my break, and I ruined it?” You slammed your bowl in the dish rack a little harder than necessary, curling your fingers through the slats. “I’m not going to risk it.”

“It was just a suggestion.”

You wilted and pushed away from the sink, rueful as you looked at him. “I know. I know you’re looking out for me and I appreciate it, but I don’t want to take the chance.”

“I get it. Hey. Come here.” Makki wrapped you up in his arms, squeezing just as tight as you, pretending not to notice when you drew in a shaky breath. “Your only options aren’t succeeding or failing, you know. There’s a million things in between that could happen too.”

Your voice was muffled by his shirt, and you were grateful for it masking your stuffed-up tone as you blinked back tears. “Why couldn’t you tell me that earlier?”

“I tell you that like every other week, doofus.”

You curled your fingers into the back of his shirt. “…I know.”

Distantly the bell chimed, and you tried to extricate yourself from his hold, but he squeezed you a little harder. “There’s a customer.”

“They can wait,” he declared, swinging you gently from side to side as he propped his chin on your head. “You look like ass lately, you know that? Like you definitely need a hug.”

“…thanks, I guess?”

“Should I come back later?”

Takahiro shuffled the two of you around as you peeked over his arm. Atsumu was leaning against the doorframe and matching your stare, looking like he couldn’t quite decide what emotion to settle on. Makki finally unwound his arms around you, raising a hand and smiling, not immune to the tension that was settling thickly in the air. “Yo. Don’t worry, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Makki!”

“You’re right. That sounds worse,” he said, slowly nodding his head. “How about, ‘we’re just friends’? Nah…that’s not right either… Maybe, ‘she’s all yours’? Oof. Sounds kind of bitter.” 

“Takahiro. Get. Out.”

“Whatever you say, boss!” 

He inched past Atsumu, chuckling quietly as he grabbed the Windex from behind the counter to tackle the windows. There must be something about spring that inspired new love, he thought absentmindedly. Maybe he’d go to the café next door on his break, see if he couldn’t flirt his way into getting the barista’s phone number this time. 

“So…”

“He’s just a friend,” you blurted out, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve known him since high school.”

“I didn’t ask.” The delighted look on his face made you flinch as his voice went sugary sweet. “Why, were you worried I’d get the wrong idea?”

You’d eat your apron before you admitted that some weird part you _had_ been worried about that, for whatever reason. You didn’t want to think too deeply about it.” No. I wasn’t.”

“You don’t hafta lie; there’s nothin’ wrong with gettin’ all cute and flustered.”

A tremor ran through you, your words dying in your mouth. Cute? Did he just call you cute? Why did that matter? Why did it _affect_ you so much? You quickly zeroed in on his face, but he had moved on, staring at the cake baking in the oven. You shook your head, and went back to your work table. He didn’t mean it like that.

Atsumu stared at your reflection in the oven door, willing the smile spreading across his face to go away. He’d be lying if he hadn’t been a little happy at the wide-eyed way you’d stared at him after he’d said it. It did something funny to his head, made him feel a little dizzy. As he watched you gather your _mise-en-place_ before calling him over, he decided with a firm, mental nod. _Yeah. She is pretty cute_.

“This is the spot Miya- _san_ posted about!”

Your ears perked up and you snuck a look at the two women surveying your store, looking starstruck as they took everything in. “It’s soooo _cute_!”

 _Yeah, yeah_ , you thought breezily, _my store’s cute, my pastries are cute_. Atsumu’s face floated in your mind. _I’m cute…_

You immediately shook your head, praying they didn’t see you flinging your head from side to side, hoping to knock the syrupy sweet thought loose. It might not even be Atsumu, most things considered; actually _all_ things considered, it probably wasn’t even him, more likely something Osamu had done or said about his flourishing business across the street.

“Do you think we’ll run into him?”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt!” They looked at you with twin smiles, so bubbly and enthused you couldn’t help but match their energy. “I think you want the onigiri shop across the street. For Miya Osamu?”

“Oh, no! No, this is the place!” At your blank look, the shorter of the two practically skipped forward, phone at the ready. “See?”

You’d thought nothing of it when Atsumu had walked out with a box full of pastries; he’d been abstaining the last week, but gave some sort of reasoning that if his coach and nutritionist just _tried_ your food once, maybe they’d cut him some slack and let him eat the occasional macaron. For some reason all those desserts, the cookies, the cakes, and macarons and tarts were on this stranger’s phone. You felt faint as you took the phone from her, tapping through his story and watching photos of the cakes fly by, videos of people who were undoubtedly his coworkers enjoying their treat. An unamused looking woman who was clearly the famed nutritionist Mina even paused after a bite of your croissant, holding a hand to her mouth as she chewed, then admitted to Atsumu’s insistent, obnoxious, off-screen voice that _yes_ , the croissants were buttery and delicious and _no_ , they couldn’t be the only source of carbs in his diet. 

Even his page itself had a photo of a half-eaten cake. Sure, the lighting wasn’t great, it wasn’t as neatly framed as you would’ve done it, and he could’ve taken a photo of it when it was still whole, but the intent left you speechless. He’d tagged your bakery as the location, captioned it something stupid and cheeky with one too many emojis, and ignored the outraged comment Mina had left about cake not being the appropriate compromise to ‘no croissants’. 

You silently handed her phone back, your smile wobbling at the corners as you tried to figure out why he’d do something like that for you. “I—”

“These all look so good… Kisa, look at this one!” 

They left with boxes stuffed to the brim and promises to tell all their friends about your bakery. You pulled out your own phone, tapping to your conversation with him. He was probably at practice, but it was only polite to acknowledge what he’d done, right?

**Thank you for**

Mm-mm. Delete delete delete.

**I heard what**

Nope. That sounded a little mean.

**[sent]: did you convince your coaches to let you eat cake for breakfast**

That was good, right? Ease into it. Don’t jump into it, assuming he did all of this to help you. For all you knew, he could’ve just decided to post them on a whim. Your phone dinged and you snatched it up.

**[Atsumu]: no  
[Atsumu]: I tried to tell them macarons are just like little sandwiches**

**[sent]: did it work?**

**[Atsumu]: Mina hit me  
[Atsumu]: ☹  
[Atsumu]: and she took all of them  
[Atsumu]: i bet shes stealing them for herself**

You laughed, and made a mental note to save a couple extra for him on Sunday.

**[sent]: rude**

**[Atsumu]: super rude**

**[sent]: some girls came in today**

**[Atsumu]: were they hot**

**[sent]: they said they saw your post  
[sent]: will you focus**

**[Atsumu]: just askin  
[Atsumu]: makes ur story more interesting**

**[sent]: I was going to say thank you but I’m taking it back**

**[Atsumu]: what else is new**

**[sent]: RUDE**

**[Atsumu]: youre welcome anyway**

You fought the elation inside you, but it still grew, light and airy like soap bubbles glistening in the sun. You had to work to do; you had to focus. You didn’t have time to ask him how practice was going, and he was probably too busy to respond anyway. For all you knew he was getting scolded for being on his phone. Still…

Before you could think twice, you tapped out your message, trying to force the weird twist making its home underneath your ribs away. 

**[sent]: whatever. Have a good practice I guess  
[sent]: see you Sunday?**

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t keep checking your phone throughout the rest of your day, relieved that Makki wasn’t here to see you dither over your conversation. It didn’t help that over the next few hours more and more people came in, citing Atsumu as their reason for popping in. A few of them were hopeful he’d be stopping by, faces falling when you shrugged helplessly, but at the very least everyone left mostly satisfied and with something to snack on later. 

The afternoon drifted towards evening, but your phone didn’t make a peep. Your giddy anticipation from earlier had melted and turned into sludge, doing its best to mire you in melancholy, but the end of the workday brought with it a wave of people stopping by after work, eager to see what had drawn the MSBY Jackals’ attention. You’d later learn that they’d posted a photo of the team eagerly divvying up your sweets (Bokuto’s piece somehow twice as large as everybody else’s), claiming that their athletes knew how to indulge too. Your phone barely crossed your mind at all as you ran back and forth, a little bemused at the sight of a small line up from counter to door. At the end of the day you were exhausted but exhilarated, eyes lighting up at the number of sales you’d made today. 

You were finishing sweeping, half the lights off to discourage any customers that chose not to see the CLOSED sign. Someone pushed at the door, the soft jingle of the bells calling your name. There was Atsumu, casually well-dressed as always with a plastic bag at his side. He hoisted it up as he grinned, pointing at it as if you could miss it.

“Figured you hadn’t eaten yet.” He peered around curiously after you let him in, taking down two chairs you’d put up. 

“I’m on my own today.” You kept sweeping, ignoring the squeak of Styrofoam and the rustle of plastic.

“Quit workin’ for a sec and come eat!”

“I have a job to do, Atsumu.”

He grumbled and jogged over to you, prising the broom from your hands. “You sound like ‘Samu.”

“Then I guess I’m spending time with the wrong twin.”

He stopped and stared at you until you cracked and grinned, murmuring ‘just kidding’. 

“There’s plenty of time for sweepin’ later. Food’s gonna get cold if you wait any longer.” When you continued to protest he gave a few hasty sweeps, pushing the dirt into the dustpan, then set them both to the side. “There. Done. Now it’s food time.”

He ushered you over to the table, forcibly sat you into a chair, and dug in without waiting. “I’m starvin’,” he mumbled around a mouthful of rice. 

“Why didn’t you eat after practice?” The smell of rice, _doteyaki_ , _kushikatsu_ , and stir-fried vegetables was making your mouth water, and you snagged a bit of everything. The stewed beef skewers melted on your tongue, the burst of salty-sweet awakening your ravenous appetite.

“I texted you, but I guess you were too busy to check.” He reached over you to grab the veggies, caramelized eggplant, red pepper, and zucchini stuffed into his already half-empty take-out container. “Since you’re workin’ all the time, you probably won’t stop to eat, right?”

You nodded, a little embarrassed he’d figured you out so quickly.

Atsumu scarfed down his salmon as you nibbled at the pickled _tennouji kabura_ he’d brought, the vinegary daikon cutting through the oil in the deep-friend _kushikatsu_. “’Samu’s the same way. He’s always tellin’ me it just happens, but someone who likes food that much forgettin’ to eat?”

“It does happen. Sometimes it just gets too busy, or you get wrapped up in something, and you think, ‘Well, I’ll just finish this _and then_ I’ll go get lunch’. Then you blink and it’s closing time and you haven’t eaten all day. You don’t get that at volleyball?” You tried to protest as Atsumu pushed more rice your way, but he wasn’t having it.

“Hell no. There’s always time to eat.” He paused with his chopsticks halfway through his mouth, a few choice memories accompanied by Kita’s stern voice floating through his mind. “…maybe once or twice, but I grew up and learned better. You gotta do the same.”

You snorted a little. “Sure thing.”

“I’m serious!” He gently grabbed your chin with his free hand, leaning over the table to look you dead in the eye. “You gotta promise.”

“I promise!” 

“Good.” You waited for him to let go, hoping he couldn’t feel the way your pulse picked up, but his touch lingered, and he was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. It was strange, this wide-eyed, searching expression on his face. It was then that you became acutely aware that you were here, alone in your shop at night with a man you may or may not have admitted a few times you thought was attractive. It made you go hot then cold then hot all over, but it was like you were glued to the spot, unable to move, unable to look anywhere but at Atsumu. This close, his eyes were the colour of dark caramel in the light; they looked just as soft and warm, the sugary heat in them promising something sweet.

Your eyes bounced instinctively to his lips, and you almost giggled at the grain of rice just caught above his mouth. His lips looked soft; well-taken care of. Everything about Atsumu looked well-taken care of, and despite your snipes about his pudding head hair, you wanted to thread your fingers through it and whisper to him to take care of you.

…where did _that_ come from?

The blood drained from your face and you stiffened, and Atsumu let you go, sitting back in his chair. It was a small mercy that he didn’t jump away like you’d burned him, but the lingering drag of his fingers along your chin just made the confusing swarm of voices in your head that much louder. 

You breached the silence tentatively, your appetite gone as he continued to shovel food in his mouth like it was his day job, which, technically, it kind of was. “A lot of people today said they came here because you.” 

“Mmph.”

“More than just those girls. And yes, before you ask, they were kind of hot.” Your attempt at humour made him waggle his eyebrows, his cheeks still stuffed full of food. You brightened at the lightening mood. “If this keeps up, I’ll be able to hire someone else. And…I just can’t thank you enough.”

He swallowed thickly, choking a little as he pounded his fist against his chest. “Stop mentionin’ it. I’m barely helpin’ out.”

“But you did.” You set your chopsticks down and fiddled with your fingers, picking at your cuticles. “Can I ask why?”

Atsumu was looking at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you were pushing it a little here. People didn’t need a reason to be kind, and asking for an explanation instead of wholeheartedly accepting the benevolence might come off as suspicious or ungrateful. But Atsumu? Focussed, regimented, ‘I’m going to do what’s best for me’ Atsumu wouldn’t be kind _without_ a reason, and your curiosity was greater than your gratitude. 

“’Cause you work hard, and people should see that. It’d be a shame for nobody to know how good your food is, don’tcha think?” He wiped his mouth clean. “There were always people willin’ to help you out with your dream, and ready to eat your food; I just went out and found ‘em. Without them, you’re just wastin’ your effort and potential, and I don’t—you shouldn’t be doin’ that.” 

Your lower lip wobbled as you sniffed loudly, the pressure in your eyes too much to hold back as you started to cry, waving aside his worried yelps and the (dirty) napkin he offered you. “I’m not sad I swear,” you burbled, swiping your hands across your cheeks. “Just…thank you, Atsumu.”

“I toldja to stop sayin’ that,” he grumbled, but he laid a comforting hand on your shoulder anyway. “You feelin’ better now?”

You blew your nose as he wrinkled his, and gave him a watery smile. “Yeah.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re providin’ dessert.”

After you’d generously allowed Atsumu not one, but _two_ desserts, he’d insisted on walking you home to _Tennōji_ -ward despite your protests, and spent the entire time loudly complaining about how full he was now, and how he shouldn’t have eaten that much. It wasn’t until you were washed up and ready for bed, nestled in your blankets that you had a moment to really think about the strange thing that had transpired between the two of you.

It wasn’t like this was the first time you’d been attracted to someone, nor the first time you’d dated. Notoriously, you’d spent a painful two months in your second-year crushing _hard_ on Iwaizumi, pining after him so much Mattsun ended up confessing for you, much to your chagrin. To his credit, it had resulted in a handful of awkward dates, and concluded in one very lukewarm kiss you ended up giggling through, before admitting that maybe you’d been in love with the idea of love instead. Your boyfriends after that had been fun and you’d learned more about yourself than you did about a few faded memories of men, and then in university…

You rolled onto your side, feeling your heart squeeze. Even now you’d automatically think of him whenever you heard the name ‘Tamaki’, as if he was the only one in the entire world. It was one of those relationships that was a touchy subject, even years after the split. You’d read about them, seen them in movies and tv shows before you’d lived it, convinced it could never happen to you: the boyfriend none of the friends liked. The one that whittled you down to a sliver of yourself. The one that left you feeling marooned and alone, even when you were together; _especially_ when you were together. The one that made you cry when it was over, that had you craving them despite the way they take and take and take, that had you screaming as you sucked the poison they’d left behind out of your veins. The relationships that hurt to finish, that left you bare and vulnerable to the world when everything was said and done.

You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes until you saw stars, taking in a deep breath. 

That wasn’t the issue at hand. The issue at hand was 6’2”, had perfectly toned bleach-blonde hair, and looked good in high-end athleisure wear. He smelled like fabric softener and Salonpas. He was strong enough to pick you up and shift you to the side when you were too stubborn to move out of his way and let him give you a hand. He was good at shaping brioche dough, he listened to you when you explained temperatures for tempering chocolate, and he…he brought you dinner, apparently. And thought you were cute.

( _Atsumu was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time._ )

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, and burrowed deeper into your blankets. For all you knew, he was just doing this out of maybe not necessarily the kindness of his heart, but whatever brash, abrupt sense of duty he seemed to have deep inside. 

_“It’d be a shame for nobody to know how good your food is, don’tcha think?”_

It took you longer than usual to fall asleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Thank You](https://youtu.be/ceLyMb0MGLE?t=267)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com/)


	7. clafoutis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am crying at the outpour of interest in this fic thank u lovely people so much ahhHHHH!!!! 🥰🥰🥰 I loeb u all so much. We're getting into the chapters that I whipped out like a madwoman, so I hope y'all enjoy the ride and domesticity as much as I did!

Spring had rolled into summer, the sakura blossoms giving way delicate, oval shaped leaves.

And Osamu was missing home.

It was the first year he hadn’t spent March cooking side by side with his mother, making _ikanago no kugini_. He missed washing the tiny sand eels and chasing after Atsumu, threatening to stick them down the back of his shirt. He missed carefully adding the layers of ginger and fish, and skimming the foam off the top. He’d made it this year by himself, trying not to feel too emotional over the pack of fish his parents had sent him, but it hadn’t been quite the same with only him and Atsumu around the table. He needed a break. He needed a weekend to just go home. He needed—

“Hey, ‘Samu. You ever thought about servin’ desserts at your place?” 

—Atsumu to be better at reading the room. Or, more likely, he was just bulldozing over whatever had been written all over Osamu’s face this morning under the pretense of ‘he’ll tell me when he’s ready’. He wasn’t wrong, per se, but it’d be nice to have someone be at least a little sensitive to his feelings. Running his own business meant being professional, meant leaving his feelings at the door to be there for his guests and employees. He didn’t have the luxury of feeling homesick when there was a line-up out the door, a sick part-timer, and a half-developed recipe sitting on his desk that needed to be ready for the quick procession of summer festivals in the city and the tourists they would bring. On top of that, he had to contend with his twin and his twin’s overly enthusiastic teammates insisting they get their own boat this year to join the _Tenjin Matsuri_ river procession at dusk. All in all, he had a lot on his plate and very little room to put his own feelings. 

Osamu looked up from the onigiri he was shaping to stare tiredly at the wall, wondering how Atsumu had him working on his day off. “You’re still hangin’ around that cake shop?”

“It’s real good. You should try it.”

“I would, but you keep eatin’ whatever you buy me.” He carefully wrapped the rice ball in a thin slice of beef, then bundled the whole thing up tightly in plastic wrap. “How many _nikumaki onigiri_ do you want.”

“Ehhhhh. Two?”

‘ _Three then_ ,’ Osamu thought to himself, scooping another handful of rice. “What’s so special about that place anyway? You never cared about food that much.”

As picky as Atsumu was, Osamu had a fair point. He didn’t have the ability to discern past ‘Tastes good? Okay. Tastes bad? No thanks.’, but if he thought it was bad? You’d be sure to hear about it for at least a week. If it was good? Nothing. Not a peep. He’d just scarf it down, pat his belly, and call it a day. “There’s just somethin’ different about the way she bakes stuff. It’s like when you’re in the middle of a match and you get—”

“Stop comparin’ food to volleyball, stupid ‘Tsumu.”

There was an indistinguishable slew of words from the living room, then a deep sigh. “It’s like your food. It’s like hittin’ a real nice spike, or like bein’ a kid again and explorin’, or…” Osamu could _hear_ Atsumu waving his hands around in the air, flailing about as he searched for words. It was a bad habit he’d picked up from Bokuto, and it’d ended up in more than one broken plate in his shop. “Tastes kinda like home. Might even be better than Kita’s rice.”

“I’m tellin’ him you said that.”

“I was jokin’!”

“Doesn’t matter I’m lettin’ him know.”

“But would you? Wanna have desserts?”

Osamu mulled over the idea for all of two seconds. “Why would people wanna eat cake they can get across the street? There’s no point.”

“No, dumbass, I was thinkin’…” Osamu bit back the quip about Atsumu’s ears starting to smoke when he heard his twin hop over the back of the couch. “You could have some kinda special or deal or somethin’. You could both offer coupons givin’ somethin’ off or somethin’ extra at each other’s shops. ‘S not a bad idea, huh?” 

“Why d’you care about that place so much?”

Osamu heard Atsumu’s footsteps falter on the tiled floor, then the slow drag of a chair. Atsumu sat beside him, chin popped above the counter as he pouted at the plate of uncooked _nikumaki_. “She makes good food.”

“Are you sayin’ somethin’ rude about my cookin’ again?”

Atsumu dipped a finger in the sauce set to the side and licked it clean, wincing as his lips puckered. “You do too, but you got people tellin’ you that every day. She works just as hard as you, and it’s just unlucky things’re goin’ how they are for her.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t.” He held out a hand, smacking it against Osamu’s arm until his twin relented and gave him a handful of rice. “But I believe in circumstance, and I think she’s doin’ everythin’ she can with what she has. She just needs a little extra help to flip things around.”

They worked in silence, Atsumu’s onigiri a little lopsided, but not nearly as bad as the travesty he’d made a few months ago. Osamu murmured his thanks, carefully wrapping it in meat and doing his best not to automatically reshape it. “Food’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.” Atsumu, surprisingly, helped him tidy up a little, putting the chair back where it belonged instead of leaving it haphazardly in the way for Osamu to run into later. He paused when he was leaving, cocking his head as he asked, “You wanna visit ma and pa next weekend? It’s been a while.” 

As the savoury smell of searing meat filled his nose, Osamu smiled and flipped the _nikumaki_ over. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“Bye! Thanks for coming in!” 

As soon as your guest was gone, Makki plucked the resume from your hand, skimming it as he asked, “And? What did you think about this one?”

“I can’t decide! They were both so good, and seemed like they’d be a good fit, but…” You paced in an agitated circle as Takahiro looked in in amusement. “It feels like when you’re super hungry and you go to a buffet, and you don’t know what to eat first.”

“Why’s it always about food with you?” You gestured impatiently at the desserts and bread around you, and he nodded. “Fair.”

“But seriously. They were both so good, and they have experience and I…ugh.” You pressed your hands together, and brought them to your lips. “I should hire Mikoto. He has baking experience and he’d know what he’s doing, and it’d be good to have another baker. But Sora’s just so _sweet_ , and he’d be perfect working the front. Then I could finally start giving you better hours and shifts; I mean we’d have to do a rotation to make things fair, but you obviously take seniority and you’re my friend and you’ve done so much for me—”

“Hire them both.”

“Okaaay.” You snorted, crossing your arms. “Are _you_ going to pay them?”

“Yeah. Well, kind of.” He tugged at his ear. “I think I’m going to head back to Tokyo.”

You’d been expecting him to tell you that, but not quite so soon. As much as you made fun of him for coming down to Osaka purely because he had nothing else to do, you knew he’d done it to make sure you had a shoulder to lean on. It was bittersweet knowing he thought you were doing well enough for him to leave. “Oh. …you sure?”

“You’ve got your workers, and I like eating your food, but I don’t think making it is my forte. Besides, I kinda miss T-town.”

The sparkle in his eyes made you crack a smile as you lightly punched him in the arm. “I kinda wanna fire you just calling Tokyo ‘T-town’.”

“T-dot? The big T.”

“Please stop. When’re you thinking of going?”

“As soon as you don’t need me around anymore.”

“Aw…” You tugged cutely at the front of his shirt as he wrinkled his nose and muttered for you to ‘stop being creepy’. “I always need you around, Makki.”

He pulled his shirt free with a smirk, flicking your forehead with his other hand. “When did you and Oikawa switch personalities?”

“I feel like you’re insulting both of us, and I’m offended.”

Easily knocking your hands away as you reached for his cheeks, he added, “I’m thinking of leaving the end of the month, if that’s okay with you. My aunt already knows.”

“I bet she’s thrilled to get her spare room back, you freeloader.”

Snatching your wrists up, Takahiro flicked your forehead again, a little harder this time. “I endured that doll-filled apartment for eight months so I could work for you. I’ve been scarred for life.”

Although you also found the figurines creepy as all hell, there was no reason Makki needed to know that. “Awwww, was lil Hiro scared of a couple of toys?”

His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “You’re curious, huh? Let me explain the difference between Bisque, _kimekomi_ , and _ichimatsu_ dolls for you.”

“No!” Shrieking with laughter, you futilely tried to pull away, nearly falling flat on your ass when the door jangled and Makki immediately let go, smoothing out his face for his customer service smile.

“ _Irasshaima_ —oh, it’s you.”

Atsumu grinned as fist-bumped Makki. “You know how to make a guy feel real special, don’tcha?”

“Didn’t want my boss to think I was trying to steal her man.” Makki ignored your flustered squawk, making a show of walking towards the stairs to the upper level. “I’m gonna go upstairs and text some friends for five minutes. Maybe listen to some music. Loudly.”

You glared at him, shooting daggers that he dodged with ease. “You’re so annoying.”

“You hired me.” Without waiting for a reply, he bounded up the stairs two at a time.

“What’re you doing here? Don’t you have practice?” You glanced at the clock as you hurried behind the counter, Makki’s comments making the urge to put something between you and Atsumu unreasonably strong. 

“Coach Foster’s always been preachin’ about us takin’ some time before afternoon practice. Says it helps us keep from overworkin’.” He whistled as he looked at the nutmeg and peach tart you added to your roster this week. “Looks like you’ve been keepin’ busy.”

“Yeah! I took your advice and put less rum in the almond cream, and they’re so much better now!” You leaned forward on the glass, kicking your feet up in the air as he smiled at you, something in his face softening. You could hear the memory you’d lost sleep and brain cells over ring in your ears. 

‘ _Cute_.’ 

You hastily pushed yourself back, looking away. “Are you just going to breathe all over my desserts, or are you going to buy one?”

“I think that’s the nicest way you’ve told me to stop gawkin’ at your food.” He stood and ran a hand through his hair, regarding the tart with longing. “Mina’d kill me if I had somethin’ sweet before practice. I’ll stop by after though; gotta grab a couple things for ‘Samu.”

You blinked not entirely sure you’d heard correctly. “Your brother?”

“Yeah. He’s been bitchin’ about a part-timer keepin’ him all stressed, so I figured he needed somethin’ to make him shut up.”

Suddenly every single pastry had some glaringly obvious flaw you’d missed in the kitchen. You laughed a little nervously as you weakly protested. “I don’t know if this would make him feel better. I mean, there’s probably a million other places you could—Oh! There’s that new _taiyaki_ place down the block. Makki went and he said it’s pretty good!”

“Quit yappin’.” He pinched your lips shut between his fingers and a you swore it was like lightening struck you, every nerve in your body going absolutely haywire. “Your food’s good, and he’s gonna like it. I’ll _make_ him like it.”

You touched a hesitant hand to your mouth once he let go, mumbling, “That’s not how it works,” as you tried not to read too much into the way his eyes were tracking the movement. 

“He’ll like it,” he repeated firmly, with enough conviction to slow the river of worry coursing through you. He nodded towards the resume sitting on the counter, slightly wrinkled from your antics with Hanamaki earlier. “What’s that.”

“Did she tell you she hired someone yet?” Makki trooped down the stairs his promised ‘one and a half songs and one webcomic episode’ later. 

“I forgot,” you admitted ruefully, yelping as Makki flicked your forehead for the third time that day. 

“Hopeless. But she can finally start taking weekends off.”

“Makki, I can’t. I have to help with prep on Sundays—”

“Maybe not every weekend, but at least take one off this month. You haven’t had one since October.” 

“Listen—”

Makki turned and pointed at Atsumu. “I’m right. Tell her I’m right.”

Atsumu nodded at you, pointing at Makki. “He’s right.”

“Good to know we all agree. You can finally do something outside the kitchen.” Hanamaki waggled his eyebrows in a way that made dread curl around your neck, clogging your throat as you did your best to talk over him.

“Don’t say it—”

“Or someone.”

“Yup.” You threw your hands in the air and turned, walking back to the kitchen. “I’m done.”

Hidden from the prying eyes of the two men laughing raucously on the other side of the door, you covered your face in your hands and groaned. Hope against hope they’d both just laugh it off like the stupid joke it was supposed to be, and Atsumu wouldn’t get some kind of weird idea that you were into him. Which you weren’t, obviously. It wasn’t like you kept kicking your blankets in the air every single time his phantom voice whispered, ‘ _Cute_ ’ in your ear, nor was it like you’d been ogling a little more than usual, appreciating the way disciplined training made him fill out his shirts a little more. And it definitely wasn’t like you’d never been more thankful for the warmer weather as he broke out the expensive looking shorts and t-shirts, revealing smooth, soft skin and the distracting bulge of his biceps. 

It was difficult to focus for the remainder of the day; you saw him shaping dough beside you as you made brioche, saw the sticky sweet colour of his eyes in the caramels you cut. Even making the neat layers of your favourite cake did nothing but remind you of him, the yuzu mousse you poured lacking the sharp scent you loved when all you could see was the pale yellow of his hair. It was like there was a chain of mini Atsumus dancing in a circle in your head, making your temples throb as you tried to forcibly evict them time and time again. By the time you finished cleaning up the lights in the front were already half-off, Hanamaki waiting for you at a table as you stared dumbly at him, then glanced at the door.

“Did—”

“Atsumu already stopped by,” he said with a sly grin. “Guess you won’t miss me that much when I leave.”

“Why are you like this.”

“I don’t know. Can’t change it.” He stood and slung an arm around your shoulders, jostling you against his side until you smiled and told him to stop. “Two new workers. That’s pretty big news for a small-time Miyagi pastry chef.”

“I’m a little nervous,” you admitted, leading the way outside and fumbling with your keys as the weight of actually needing to manage people laid itself on your shoulders. It was one thing trading snippy remarks with Makki, knowing he’d try hard because you were friends. It was another to lead people you barely knew through the steps of a business you’d laid the foundation for. 

“You’ll be great. Besides, you’ve got bigger things to worry about.” You tensed, looking askance at him when he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Like how you’re going to fix poor sixteen year old Hajime’s heart when he finds out you’ve replaced him _again_ —”

You punched him in the stomach, not bothering to wait for him to stop doubling over as you headed out the door. 

It was rare, but not odd, for Osamu to see Atsumu at his door on a Monday night. 

What was odd was the large pastry box his twin shoved at him as soon as the door was open. It was tempered by the familiarity of Atsumu walking in like it was his apartment and not his brother’s, kicking his shoes off and clattering around in the kitchen to grab forks and plates. Osamu carefully opened the unexpected gift, peeling back the _Halcyon Pastry_ sticker and flattening the box out. 

“You finally saved me a piece.” 

Atsumu slid the plates onto the coffee table, dropping the knife almost a little too carelessly beside his twin’s hand. “‘Course I did. You’re my brother aren’tcha?” 

Tearing his eyes away from the icing sugar dusted atop the most beautiful peach tart he’d ever seen Osamu considered his brother carefully. “...what d’you want.” 

“Nothin’, shitty Samu.” Atsumu nudged the knife closer to Osamu’s hand. “Can’t I be nice for a second?” 

Warily obliging, Osamu paused once more, the knife hovering over a cake with the cleanest layers he’d witnessed outside of a cooking book, the faint smell of yuzu and chocolate tickling his nose. “Didja poison it?” 

“No!” 

“Didja make it?” 

“You think I can make somethin’ this frilly?” 

The appropriate answers received, Osamu cut into the cake, sliding half of it onto Atsumu’s plate. “Good. Your cookin’ is as good as poison anyway.” 

“This is the last time I’m doin’ somethin’ nice for you—”

“It’s the first time you’ve done somethin’ nice for me. Wearin’ the onigiri hat doesn’t count,” Osamu added, and Atsumu’s mouth clicked shut. It was just as well, because Osamu finally had some of the desserts he’d been hearing about for months at this point, and everything had boiled down to the mouth puckering flavour of the best cake he’d ever had. A little voice in a far-flung corner of his mind told him his ma would be sad to hear that, and he shushed it by sayin’ what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. The initial sour of the yuzu had faded into the rich, toasted flavour of caramel, the slight bitterness in the fudgey chocolate cake keeping it from being too sweet. Were those almonds he tasted? He took a second look at the cake, staring long and hard before taking another bite. 

“It’s good, right?” Atsumu looked unbearably self-satisfied, but Osamu didn’t even have it in him to attempt indifference.

“It’s good. Really good.” It felt like injustice to describe it like that, but everything was currently wiped clean from his mind, save the scrape of his fork across his plate. Without any prompting he wiped the knife clean and split the peach tart in half, a satisfied, “mmph” leaving him as he savoured the juicy, lightly cooked fruit. The sweet taste of vanilla bean nestled against the warm flavour of nutmeg reminded him summer festivals, running around with sparklers and trying to catch goldfish with his little paper hoop. He understood now what Atsumu meant when he said your food reminded him of home. 

If Osamu had to be honest, it had stung a little bit to hear that. He accepted that there were talented chefs out there, capable of more than he could ever do. He had times where he’d eaten a meal and lamented that he wasn’t good enough to make something like that (yet), but to hear that someone else had been able to evoke emotion in his otherwise picky, finnicky twin? The man who used to regularly demand near perfection from everyone around him? Who would complain the second Osamu ran out of Kita’s rice and had to substitute it? It seemed unfathomable. 

Osamu picked up the lingering crumbs by squashing them with the tines of his fork, eyeing the macarons and the freeze-dried raspberries scattered across a croissant longingly. His stomach gave a weak noise of protest. 

“So…whaddaya think? It’s the perfect opportunity.” Atsumu was smiling like he already knew what Osamu was going to say. That same stupid smile he’d made after seeing the freak quick at Nationals; the one that said, ‘ _I know you’re comin’ with me, whether you want to or not_ ’. “Right, ’Samu?”

Osamu reached for a macaron.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6VrKro8djw)
> 
> U can chat with me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com/)


	8. custard bun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm just repeating the same things over and over again, but I honestly appreciate all of you so much for engaging with this story?? I am always so giddy and overwhelmed by the fact that people enjoy this and it warms my lil heart so THANK YOU!!! 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this chapter ❤🥐🍰🥧
> 
> **Edited 2/2/2021: messed up some coding, and it deleted a few lines :(**

It was like some sort of unspoken rule that hadn’t been broken until now: Osamu stayed with his onigiri, you stayed with your cakes, and Atsumu was the unlikely traveller that bridged both worlds, darting back and forth as he pleased. 

You were elbow deep in flour, making careful cuts in your first test-batch of _sakanoshiki_ cherry _jalousie_ as Mikoto watched raptly. You had a pot of blueberry compote cooling to the side, ready to be layered into puff pastry. In other words, you were deep in the zone hardly expecting anything to happen, and Hanamaki had given you no warning other than, “the one with rice is here”, and now Osamu was standing in your kitchen as you tried desperately to figure out if you had flour on your face.

“Sorry I didn’t stop by sooner. I figured you’d get sick of havin’ too many Miyas around.” He dipped his head towards you and nodded towards Mikoto, glancing around as he shifted the bag in his arms.

“Oh! You can put that there.” You gestured towards the far corner of your work station, feeling a little bit like you were in the middle of a fever dream. In every instance you’d imagine actually meeting Osamu, it had gone one of two ways:

> 1) He insulted your baking and rubbed his success in your face, inspiring your Magical Girl transformation, his words spurring you to work harder and push yourself further. Through sheer determination, you would draw the attention of some rich love interest who would support you and fall for you, encouraging you to do your best in true, flowery _shoujo_ manga fashion. Then you’d lord _your_ success over Osamu (in a very humble, roundabout way by virtue of your natural talent and too-kind nature – a proper heroine to the end), while he cried in the corner with patches on his clothes, or
> 
> 2) He insulted your baking and rubbed his success in your face, you’d be _into_ it, and you’d both bitch at each other until it culminated in hate sex in your office upstairs, leading to a volatile, competitive fuck-buddy relationship that inspired your baking and pushed you to be better. Then you’d lord your success over Osamu, not the least bit humble as you cackled with glee, first-place trophy in hand while he cried in the corner with patches on his clothes.

Both those scenarios seemed off now, neither of them seeming to properly fit the situation given he didn’t look like he was here to insult you, no trace of egotism in his eyes, and the bag of what was undoubtedly onigiri and the famous _inarizushi_ Makki wouldn’t stop talking about seconded that theory. It also didn’t hurt that Atsumu being thrown into the fray had effectively thrown you off your game, what little he told you of Osamu often making you bluntly tell him time and time again that maybe you should’ve befriended the other twin.

“How can I help you?” 

“I was wonderin’ if you had a moment to talk? I can come back if it’s a bad time.”

Maybe it was the consideration he was showing you after how used you were to Atsumu’s ‘we’re doin’ this right here, right now; everything’s perfect for it’ attitude bulldozing you time and time again despite your attempts to hold him back at arm’s length and telling him to _chill_. Maybe it was the earnest way he was looking at you, tugging on the brim of his hat a little nervously. You flapped your hands at Osamu, running to the door to hold it open for him.

“No, now is okay! I just need to clean up if you’re okay to wait for a few minutes?” At his nod you turned to Hanamaki who was looking you up and down, like he half-expected you to pull a knife out from behind your back and slit Osamu’s throat. “Makki, can you show Miya- _san_ to the office and get him something to drink? Tea? Water? Juice?”

Osamu sank down into one of the chairs, resting his elbows on his knees as he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “Some tea’d be great.”

“Coming right up.” As you turned to leave Makki pinched your elbow, leaning in to stage-whisper, “You want me to poison it, right?”

“I’m gonna poison you!” you hissed back, missing the quiet chuckle Osamu hid behind his hand. Atsumu’s frequent visits were starting to make more sense.

You helped Mikoto return your kitchen to normal, popping the pastries in the fridge, scraping down the wooden counter, and sweeping the flour from the floor. Catching him eyeing the Onigiri Miya bag you sent him on his break, two onigiri in hand as he offered to buy Makki coffee next door and Makki _insisted_ he go instead; he and the barista had a ‘special connection’ that always seemed to manifest itself in an extra free coffee for him and missing macarons for you.

In the office you pulled a chair out, setting plates down as you watched Osamu carefully. “I hope you don’t mind I gave some to Mikoto.” 

“Food’s meant to shared, right? ‘S not a problem.” You carefully unpacked the bag, ignoring Makki hovering over you like a vulture as you laid out onigiri and _inarizushi_ , and a small package of what looked like _tako-meshi_. A few onigiri surreptitiously disappeared when Makki did, but you were too busy staring at the neatly pressed rice balls to care. Somewhere along the line your refusal to eat his food had changed from petty to just simply not having enough time, and if your rumbling stomach was any indication, it was probably the perfect time to try them.

You’d taken one bite when Osamu casually dropped the second bomb. “I had your cake. The yuzu one.”

You choked and swiftly gulped down your water, trying not to squeeze the life out of the onigiri in your hands. You couldn’t look at that cake without thinking about Atsumu in the first place, and if Osamu insulted it, you’d probably never make it again. “What’d you think?”

“It was…” _‘Fuckin’ amazin’’_ is what he wants to say, but he settles for, “unreal. You’ve got a lot of skill, and it’s easy to see you worked real hard on it.”

You sighed as relief washed over you, and resumed trying not to stuff the onigiri into your mouth whole. Makki hadn’t been lying when he said it was ‘better than good’. “The Miya twins are all about working hard, huh?” 

You elicited a laugh from Osamu at that as he tipped the brim of his hat up. “Stupid ’Tsumu doesn’t shut up about it, huh? I wanted to talk to you to offer you a…business deal, but you can’t make a deal with someone if you don’t know what their food tastes like.”

It took a moment for his words to register; you were too busy repeating ‘ _Tsumu_ in your head, trying not to smile at how cute that was. You reached for a piece of _inarizushi_ , careful not to break the delicate tofu. “What kind of business deal?”

“Are you any good at makin’ _butaman_?”

You vigorously nodded your head; now that he mentioned it, a pork bun would be the perfect addition to this meal. Then you paused. Holy shit this _inarizushi_ was the best one you’d ever had. The perfectly seasoned tofu, and he’d put _carrots_ in with the rice and sesame seeds— You reached for another one before you even finished chewing as he looked on in amused pride.

“I’ve got a recipe in mind, but I can’t get the dough right. It’s always too dense or dry or somethin’ else ‘Tsumu won’t quit yammerin’ about. I was thinkin’ we could do a collaboration? Some kinda special, and you’ll get half the sales; don’t worry. If it goes alright, we could talk some more about doin’ other things in the future. Whaddaya think?” He looked at you expectantly, and you tried to tell him through your eyes alone that the answer couldn’t be anything but ‘yes’. You wouldn’t even complain if he offered to pay you in onigiri. 

“Yes! Yes of course!” The two of you swiftly hammered out the details, deciding deadlines and discussing texture, flavour profile, and design. It was like you were in heaven, sketching out different bun designs and offering feedback for his recipe. At some point he told you to stop calling him Miya- _san_ , and when he bowed politely as he left it struck you that the Miya twins had somehow wiggled their way into your life to stay. 

The spring in your step was easy to see, and you whipped through the rest of your training with Mikoto, giving Chiyo and Sora a cheery ‘hello’ when they came in for their evening shift. Makki was waiting for you upstairs, spinning lazy circles in your swivel chair as you finished up for the day. It felt a little strange leaving so early, but Makki wasn’t the least bit swayed by your trepidation, reminding you over and over again that working nine hours was the usually the length of a regular work day. 

Makki picked up your sheet of bun designs, contemplating it as you printed a new count sheet for the morning. “Everything’s coming together now, huh?”

“It’s a little surreal. It almost feels like something should be going wrong—”

“Stop worse-casing it.” He poked at your ribs, not-so-gently punctuating each word he spoke. “You deserve to have good things happen to you too, you know.”

“I know I know. It’s just…it’s like a dream.”

“I’ve been told I’m pretty dreamy,” he said with a cocked eyebrow, posing with his thumb and index finger under his chin. “If things are going this good for you, maybe I’ll head home a little earlier.”

You tried and failed to flick him in the forehead. “Don’t you dare. I still need you around.” 

“Yeah, yeah…who else is gonna tell you this bun looks like a butt?”

“It does not!” You tilted your head to the side and winced. “It totally does.”

“Nailed it.”

Makki accompanied you while you went grocery shopping, grabbing a few things for himself that made you grimace (“They’re roast chicken flavoured chips; how could they _not_ be good?”), and carried your bags for you as he walked you home. It was strange to have a chance to actually enjoy the summer sun instead of staring longingly at it through a window, and the beers Makki had convinced you to buy were a welcome chill against your warm skin. It almost threw you off a little having so much free time, but you took the opportunity to do all the little things you’d been missing without really knowing: lounging on the couch, organizing your bookshelf, actually cooking yourself a decent, fresh meal for once. The little mundanities soothed you, evened out the tremor in your gut that’d been plaguing you since last year.

You were rearranging your first batch of dumplings in the pan when your phone buzzed, and you unlocked it with your pinky knuckle.

**[Atsumu]: you. me. udon  
[Atsumu]: i can stop by after you close  
[Atsumu]: didnt want ya to cry cause I wont be around this sunday**

**[sent]: I’m at home stupid Tsumu**

**[Atsumu]: so ya met samu  
** **[Atsumu]: hes a prick  
[Atsumu]: im comin by**

A little over a half an hour later as you were draining the _gyoza_ on paper towel, your phone rang, Atsumu’s voice ringing through your little apartment as you answered his call. “I don’t know your stupid code.”

“Call me stupid again and I’ll leave you out there,” you shot back, even as you padded over to your front door. 

“I wasn’t callin’ _you_ , stupid, I was callin’—”

“Yourself stupid?” You laughed, pressing the button to let him in as he hung up on you.

He didn’t bother knocking, walking in like he knew you were going to leave the door unlocked for him (you did), food in hand as he shucked his shoes and made his way to your kitchen. “You got anythin’ to drink?”

You opened your mouth to rattle off the list of beverages, but he was already face-first in your fridge, eyes lighting up as they landed on the six-pack of Sapporo. With an exasperated smile, you rolled your eyes. “Help yourself.”

“You’re done early today.” He took a loud slurp from his beer, opening and closing your cupboards with wild abandon in search of more plates. “Havin’ more workers is helpin’?” At your hum of affirmation, he nodded to himself. “Good. Workin’ with ‘Samu’s gonna help too. I bet in a coupla years you’ll be able to open up a second shop, maybe in Amagasaki. You’d do good there.”

He was serving the two of you udon and dumplings without care, as if he hadn’t just casually dropped the idea of expanding your pastry shop in front of you. The ray of hope – of daring to dream again – flickered to life inside you, and you had to focus intently on twirling your noodles around your chopsticks to keep your voice even. “You’re doing too much for me.”

“With what?” When you looked up, he already had sauce on his face.

“Everything. The posts, talking to Osamu…” You picked up a noodle, struggling to put your thoughts in order. “I thought you were the kind of person to just yell at someone to try harder.”

“I am.” As you narrowed your eyes at him, he added, “But you are tryin’ hard. You’re just tryin’ too hard in one direction, y’know? So I figured I’d help you try somethin’ new out, see what happened if you went a different way.”

Before you would’ve bristled at his words, called him a few choice names before asking what the hell he knew about running a business, but he’d shown himself to be nothing but supportive. Never coddling you, but insisting you take the extra step, to approach the situation from another angle like he’d said. Maybe he wasn’t lying when he said he was the best setter in Japan.

The thought made you snicker around your dumplings. Your curiosity had gotten the better of you earlier in the day, and you’d asked Osamu if he really was brothers with the best setter in Japan. 

_“No,” he’d said flatly, trying to hide a smile. “Kageyama Tobio’s not my brother.”_

Atsumu kicked at your leg. “What’re you laughin’ at?”

You dawdled, chewing slowly as you trying to think of a diversion. “Why do you bleach your hair?”

“Huh?” He shook his hair out, running his hand through it. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever thought of going back to black?”

“Back to—” He squinted at you with his dumpling paused halfway to his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re crushin’ on shitty ‘Samu.”

“I’m not!” When his skepticism didn’t lessen, you insisted, even setting down your chopsticks to show how serious you were. “I’m _not_ , I swear. I was just wondering!” 

“Hmph.” 

The two of you ate in silence, Atsumu finishing off the last of the dumplings. He sipped at the rest of his beer as you tided up, staring moodily at the grain of your table. “…he farts in his sleep, y’know.”

“Huh?”

“And he gets mad if you don’t lick your plate clean when he cooks. He’s real needy and always needs someone to tell him he’s good at what he does.”

You hoped the running water was enough to mask the sound of your laughter. “Sounds like you’re just talking about yourself.”

“I _know_ I’m good.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

There was a brief silence, and then, “What’re your newbies like?”

You regaled him with stories about how well Mikoto and Sora were already fitting in and how quickly they were catching on, and he only let a few crocodile tears slip out when you told him you’d probably have to stop the impromptu baking lessons with how busy work was getting. The two of you nursed your beers as the focus of the conversation switched to him, about how Bokuto had been in top form, how Hinata had accidentally sprayed himself with the water fountain again (“Again?!” “Again.”), how he’d scored the first service ace during their scrimmage, and how he got in trouble for shoving a volleyball up his pinny and parodying their now visibly pregnant nutritionist Mina…again (“…really? Again?” “…again.”).

The hours ticked by, and you didn’t notice the setting sun or the late hour until Atsumu excused himself, insisting you keep the leftovers so you didn’t ‘forget to eat _again_ ’. He opened your door halfway before he stopped, leaning towards you, the faint scent of beer and noodles wafting your way. “One more thing real quick before I go.”

Your heart stuttered, the phantom touch of his hand on your face pleasantly reminding you of the last time the two of you had dinner together. “What is it?”

“I almost forgot, but…” You held your breath as his eyes slid to half-mast, and his lips pursed. “’Samu always smells like octopus every time he’s done work. Every single day. Doesn’t matter what he was makin’, he’s always fishy.”

You reached around him to open the door the rest of the way, none too gently ushering him out the door. “Good night, Atsumu.”

“I’m bein’ serious here! It’s a real problem—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, ignoring how round his pretty brown eyes got, and walked him backwards into the hall. “Good night.”

The door clicked shut in front of him, the warmth of your hand making his face tingle, the faint smell of dish soap on your skin lingering in his nose. 

“Shoulda licked her hand,” he half-muttered to himself. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stomped off towards the elevator, unable to keep the smile gradually spreading across his face at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Stuck in the Middle with You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ln7Vn_WKkWU)
> 
> Send me a croissant thru the screen on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)
> 
> Want more Atsumu? Here's a lil blurb about him only posted on my tumblr: [champion](https://chicoree.tumblr.com/post/641505266200985600/pairing-atsumu-x-reader-warnings-slight-nsfw)


	9. crème brûlée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my little cakes and croissants. Lmfao that was awful I'm never doing that again. Just a heads up for some content in this chapter:
> 
>  **tw gaslighting/emotional manipulation:** this is in reference to a past relationship
> 
> Pls pretend for the sake of this universe that Mattsun has moved to Tokyo to be closer to his friends, and is no longer living in Miyagi thank u. 🍰💖

Makki was leaving two weeks later than he’d initially planned, and you were still convinced it was too soon.

He’d kindly stayed to help you through the busy Yukata Festival, joking that maybe he’d stick you in a bread basket and carry you around the shop if it helped you lighten up a little. You’d given him a milk-curdling glare, sweat glistening along your forehead as you neatly and _terrifyingly_ sliced through frozen _entremets_ with a hot knife while never breaking eye contact. He’d avoided the kitchen the rest of the day, only braving it to ask Mikoto for more steamed pork buns to run over to Onigiri Miya whenever they were running low.

In spite of him annoying the living daylights out of you, you still found yourself hard-pressed to let go of him, latching your fingers together behind his back as if that could keep him in Osaka. “Come visit, okay?”

“Of course. Whenever you want.”

“Next weekend.”

“Too soon, needy.” He kept patting your back, counting down the minutes until he absolutely had to leave, his train ticket burning a hole in his pocket, and the box of profiteroles you’d made him occupying at least 80% of his current brain capacity. “Where’s your boyfriend? I thought Atsumu’d come say goodbye—”

“He’s not my _boyfriend_ ,” you snarled, jerking away as Makki extricated himself from your aggressively clingy hug. “Besides, he had plans today.”

“I figured you would’ve kissed or something by now.”

You crossed your arms having half a mind to keep the profiteroles for yourself. “I’m busy. I have too many things to do to think about things like that!”

“But you _have_ thought about it.” He pinched your cheeks and pulled at them until you stopped frowning, yelping about him giving you wrinkles if he kept this up. “But seriously, if you ever need anything, let us know. We’ll come running.”

“I know I know.”

He placed a hand on your head, the familiar gesture making you tear up as he carefully picked his words. “You know you did good, right? Leaving Tamaki and coming here. I’m proud of you. We’re all proud of you. Flakeykawa is too, even though he’s halfway across the world and sucks at answering his phone most of the time.”

You rubbed at your eyes, sniffing valiantly to try and stopper your leaky nose. “Say hi to Iwa and Mattsun for me. Give them a hug too, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give your other boyfriends a big fat kiss on the— _ow._ ”

Hanamaki’s hand flew to his stinging forehead in shock as you gave him a toothy smile. “I had to get you back one time.”

“Sure.” He could admit that was only fair, especially as he was raising a hand of his own, fingers poised in prime flicking position. “Just hold still real quick—"

“You’re going to miss your train!”

Once Makki left it grew oddly quiet, the faint sounds of Mikoto bustling around in the kitchen barely audible above the gentle hum of your A/C. The warm Sunday morning was a little overcast as if in sympathy, and you absentmindedly polished the jam jars as you waited for your first customers of the day. Even your phone was strangely silent; normally, no matter what he was doing, Atsumu made sure to send you at least a few texts a day.

A lot of them were sweaty selfies or videos of his teammates rolling around on the ground – it was a little nice to know you didn’t _really_ ever fully grow up no matter how old you got – but there were also the simple, mundane ones where he just told you about his day or this weird rock he saw kind of shaped like a croissant. It was weirder now to not hear from him at all, especially since he knew it was Makki’s last day, but…well. Maybe he was just really busy.

You slowed to a stop halfway through your polishing. He’d been pretty vague about what he had to do today – not that it _bothered_ you or anything. All he’d said was something about needing to meet someone, and at your quip that you’d “finally get some work done”, he’d just chuckled and said, “Yeah, have fun” and hung up. _Maybe he’s on a date_ , a part of you whispered, and you scrubbed a little harder at a jar of _ume_ jam, the plum wine spread glistening like a precious gem as it caught the light. It didn’t matter if he did; and _if_ he did, it was none of your business. He was allowed to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted…even if it made you feel a little sick when you thought about him smiling at some other girl, talking with her in that lilting tone he took on whenever he teased you.

The bell chimed and you looked up hopefully, but the nausea rolling around in your belly only got worse as an all too familiar face walked in. It was as if that universe was conspiring against you, intent on unloading bad luck on this day; ‘well her mood’s already down,’ it must’ve figured. ‘Why don’t we have her run into her ex too?’

“It’s you!” Bright blue eyes widened. “What’re you doing here?”

“You know her?” The pretty brunette beside Tamaki eyed you up and down, shifting her hold on his arm to flash the large, glittering diamond ring nestled on her finger.

“Yeah she’s…an old friend of mine.”

You forced an unfeeling smile on your face, setting down the jam jar with shaky hands. “It’s nice to see you again, Tamaki- _san_.”

“Drop the ‘ _san_ ’; we’ve known each other too long for that,” he said with a laugh, then whispered at the woman who was undoubtedly his fiancée to take a look around while he caught up with you.

You didn’t want to catch up; you wanted to throw jam jars at him and scream and scream until he turned tail and ran out, dragging his fiancée behind him. Your fingers twitched before you curled them into a fist, wishing Makki had stayed just a little while longer. “How’ve you been?”

“Good! I’m assistant-manager in the accounting department now. Got a nice little raise and upgraded to a condo in _Nakameguro_. We have a perfect view of the river and the cherry blossoms in the spring-time. I was thinking once I get department chief, Kana and I might move to _Ebisu_ and—”

His voice faded away as the ringing in your ears grew louder. If he was the same as he was back then, and it certainly seemed like he was, he’d just talk and talk and talk about himself and his accomplishments all day until he finally ran out of steam. That didn’t bother you; it never really bothered you. What had you on edge was what was going to happen when he stopped.

“You look like you’re doing okay.” You snapped back to the present; Kana had deposited several pre-packaged chocolates in front of you, and you robotically rang them up. “It looks like your little hobby is working out.”

He picked up a box of chocolates and his eyebrows shot up. He tossed it back haphazardly on the table.

“Seems kind of over-priced, don’t you think?” He wrapped an arm around his fiancée’s waist, pulling her away from the cake display. “Just wait, baby. We’ll go somewhere else for that.”

You fumbled with the chocolates, clattering them noisily against the counter as you tried to shovel them into a bag. You needed to sit down; you felt like you were going to pass out. He tapped his card without even glancing at you, tsking under his breath as he read the names of your pastries out loud. Shoving the bag at them, you barely managed a faint, “Thanks for stopping by.”

His hand brushed yours as he took the handle, and you flinched, trying to hide the movement by pulling your hand quickly back to your side. You stared pointedly at the counter, drawing backwards as he tried to reach a hand your way to patting soothingly at your arm. “When you run low on money, don’t worry; you’ll always have your job back in Tokyo. It’ll be waiting for you when you’re done playing around.”

As soon as the door shut behind them you crumpled to the ground, your fingernails digging into your knees as choked sobs spilled unsteadily from your lips. Every insidious, ‘well-meaning’ word he’d said was wrapping around your throat and squeezing, the ground falling apart beneath you as nothingness reared back and opened its gaping maw.

“ _Why bother?_ ” _Tamaki was knotting his tie, not even sparing you a passing glance where you lay in bed._

_“It’s something I’ve always wanted to try, and you know how much I love baking—”_

_“You won’t find a job doing that. Then what’re you going to do, hm?” He crouched before you, cupping your cheeks in your hands. “Baby, your cake isn’t bad, but nobody’s going to pay money to eat it when they can just make it themselves. Then you’ll be wandering the street, homeless and jobless and wishing you’d listened to me.”_

_“But—”_

_“I’m kidding, I’m kidding; I’d take care of you.” He kissed the corner of your mouth once you fell quiet. “But right now, I have a_ real _opportunity, and I can’t give that up; in order for that to happen, I need you to support me, okay? You want to do that, right? You want me to be happy? Want_ us _to be happy?”_

_You slowly nodded and he kissed you on the lips this time, lingering a little longer when you pulled him closer._

_“You know I’m doing this because I care about you, right? I just don’t want you to get hurt when things don’t work out.” He stood and straightened his tie, his hands pushing and pulling as he watched the top of your bowed head. “I know it hurts, but I’m telling you this out of love. Don’t forget that.”_

“Chef?”

You flinched and snapped out of your memories, Mikoto’s worried face slipping into view.

“Chef? Are you okay?” Mikoto nervously handed you a tissue, his slate grey eyes darting to follow the tears sliding down your cheeks. “Should I call Chiyo and tell her to come in early?”

“No.” You cleared your throat, dabbing at your eyes and trying to catch sight of your reflection to see how puffy you looked right now. “I just…need a minute. Can you get me some ice?”

Nodding he scampered off, and you carefully stood, resting heavily on the counter. You picked at your cuticles, fighting the urge to scream. You wanted to tell someone; you _needed_ to tell someone. Every awful feeling Tamaki planted inside you was sprouting, tangling around your lungs, squeezing painfully around your heart. You reached for your phone, tapping to the group chat, thumbs poised to shakily ask for comfort, for reassurance, for your _friends_ —and still you hesitated.

Even though he was already on the train, Makki would a hundred percent turn around and come back, and force himself to live in Osaka until the day he breathed his last. Iwa would rampage through the streets, sullying his professional image for the sake of ‘going Godzilla on Tamaki’s slimy ass’. And Mattsun…well, part of you expected he’d watch the whole thing play out mob boss style, waiting until the last minute to deliver the killing blow, or he’d signal Oikawa to do it, the former captain probably eagerly hitting a literal killer serve at your ex-boyfriend’s face.

It made you feel a little better knowing they’d have your back, but it was also a firm reminder that they had their own lives and goals to works towards, and a chance encounter with your least favourite person wasn’t worth bothering them with. You couldn’t do that to them. _Shouldn’t_ do that do them.

Shouldn’t pull Iwaizumi and Oikawa from chasing their dreams.

Shouldn’t add strain to Mattsun’s day.

Shouldn’t give a flimsy excuse to trap Makki in Osaka with you…especially when you already knew he didn’t want to stay.

As you iced your face and slowly sipped on the water Mikoto had given you, you forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to push the feelings aside and calm down. You wouldn’t do that to them. It’d be better to handle this on your own.

Atsumu’s fingers were itching for his phone.

He eyed where it was sandwiched between three other phones and the tabletop, mentally cursing Bokuto for insisting they stack them and whoever reached for theirs first would have to pay the bill. They’d all yelled at Atsumu when he’d told them _he’d_ pay then they could _all_ go on their phones, and as punishment they put his on the bottom to ‘teach him a lesson’. Some _lesson_. The only thing he’d learned was to never listen when Bokuto said he had a ‘fun idea’.

“When’re you gonna tell us what’s going on?” he groused when Bokuto came bounding back to the table, table number in hand.

“Don’t worry, Tsum-Tsum! I promise it’ll be worth the wait!” The wing-spiker squeezed himself into the booth, jostling Atsumu as he shimmied his way in. Atsumu was about two seconds away from complaining when Bokuto punched his hands in the air, loudly declaring, “I’m getting married!”

“Uh—wha—congratulations, Bokkun!” Atsumu gave his friend a hearty slap on the back; Bokuto didn’t even flinch.

“Of course, of course!” he continued cheerily, nodding his thanks at Hinata and Sakusa. Atsumu eyed the distance between them jealously as Bokuto elbowed him, even though he was fairly certain Omi-Omi’s ass was probably hanging halfway off the edge of his seat. “I want you all to be my groomsmen—”

“Whoa, thanks, Bo!”

“—and I also asked Meian, Inuaki, Barnes, Tomas—”

“Uh…sure.”

“—Washio, Konoha, Sarakui—”

“Wait—”

“Komi, Kuroo, Tsukki—”

“Hey, isn’t that too many?” Atsumu protested. “The line-up’s gonna hit the wall.”

Bokuto blinked innocently at him. “But I should have everyone up there, right? Akaashi doesn’t mind; some of them are his friends too. Besides, maybe we can curve around on each side like this.”

At the sight of him drawing what he meant with his fingers on the table, Atsumu snapped again. “That’s just a circle!”

“Are there going to be any people sitting in the audience, Bokuto?” Hinata asked with a stifled laugh, thanking their server as she delivered their food while looking more than a little starstruck.

Bokuto hummed as he thought, snapping his chopsticks. “Coach Foster. Mina.” He chewed thoughtfully on his _gyudon_. “Hey, do you think they’d rather be up there with us?”

The vein in Atsumu’s temple pulsed. “Keep some people in the seats!”

“You’re really enthusiastic about this, Tsum-tsum. Have you thought a lot about your wedding then?”

Sakusa finished polishing his spoon with a spare napkin, finally digging into his _ume shiso_ pasta. “Does Atsumu look like the kind of person who thinks?”

“Don’t be mad just ‘cause you’re single and lonely like me, Omi-Omi.”

“I’ve met Omi- _san_ ’s girlfriend,” Hinata piped up, green curry dripping from his spoon. “She’s really nice.”

Bokuto beamed. “Congratulations, Omi-Omi!”

Atsumu choked. “You let someone touch you? Who?!”

“None of your business,” Sakusa said with a withering glare. Atsumu made a mental note to sweat all over his spare face masks tomorrow.

“Just ‘cause he’s seein’ someone doesn’t mean he’s thinkin’ about marryin’ her,” Atsumu grumbled, poking at his _tekkadon_ , the thin slices of tuna valiantly trying to stir his waning appetite.

“You must’ve thought of it before, Atsumu- _san_. I have.” Hinata kept eating, like he hadn’t just verbally slapped Atsumu across the face.

“Ohhh, things are good with your partner Hinata?” Bokuto leaned forward. “Hey, do we get to meet them soon?”

Hinata smiled secretively around his spoon. “Maybe later. They’re shy.”

Atsumu meanwhile was slowly eating, barely making a dent in his food as he frowned. Marriage? They were already talking about _marriage_? Wasn’t it too soon for that sort of thing? He tried to think back to his last relationship, racking his brain as he tried to put a face to the fuzzy memory of a redheaded…no she was blonde, right? And a nurse? What was her name again? Suki? Sakura? Sakusa? He shivered violently and threw the mental image of Omi-Omi in a sexy nurse outfit out of his mind. Had it really been that long since he’d seriously dated someone? No way! He was a good-looking guy, he had a great job, and a healthy social life—

Well, maybe he had been spending a little more time than usual at a certain pastry shop. But just because he was getting older and all his friends were settling down didn’t mean he had to.

“Look. You broke him.”

Sakusa’s voice had Atsumu snapping back to the present, his eyes already narrowed into a glare, ignoring the spoonful of food he’d just shovelled into his mouth to say, muffled and barely distinguishable, “Nobody broke nothin’! Just ‘cause I’m not thinkin’ about marriage yet doesn’t mean I won’t later!”

Sakusa barely stifled a snort of laughter, masking it with a mouthful of pasta as Hinata let a forgotten scoop of curry fall sadly back to his plate in favour of smiling apologetically. “We’re ah…we’re not talking about that anymore.”

“Oh.” Atsumu swallowed thickly, ignoring the pain in his esophagus as he struggled to choke the lump of rice and fish down. “I knew that.”

“But since you’re still taking so long to think through it, why don’t we explain it for you. Marriage is when—”

“Shut yer face, Omi-Omi.”

The conversation veered away from relationships and wedding themes into more comfortable territory, and Atsumu was finally able to taste his food again. They finished up and said their goodbyes, congratulating Bokuto again as he cheered the entire way down the street, singing out to anybody who would look his way, “I’m getting MARRIED!”

The weather was nice enough to warrant walking, and Atsumu wasn’t too far from his place; maybe the fresh air would do him some good, help him air out the stuffy feeling in his brain. While he was waiting to cross the street, he stared at his hand, trying to picture a wedding band there, trying to imagine getting down on one knee and actually proposing to someone. As hard as he tried to visualize what’s-her-face in front of him, the daydream kept dissipating, slipping away like rainwater running down a window. Maybe he wasn’t the marrying type, but—well, no…saying that also didn’t feel right.

It was difficult, if he was being honest, to think about anything past what he had going on right now. Between volleyball, family, friends, his weekly runs with you, working through one of every pastry in your shop, bugging Osamu about his collab with _Halcyon Café_ , the parade of festivals coming around the corner he’d promised to go to with you…he didn’t have time to think about things like _love_ and _marriage_ and who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, let alone time to date.

“Huh.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and crossed the street. “Oh well.”

There were more important things to focus on.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he grinned to himself as he sent you his customary row of croissants, smiling a little wider when you replied, exasperated, but asking him about his day nonetheless.

He’d figure it out later. He always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Psycho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uR8Mrt1IpXg)
> 
> Tell me about how incredibly cringey my nicknames at the start were on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	10. kunafa ashta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn! Is real! It's getting there tho it's getting there! Pls enjoy this humble offering today!!!!

“Do you think I’m the marryin’ type?”

You looked up from the hamstring stretch you were doing, and mimed cleaning your ears. “Huh? What?” Maybe this run had finally knocked your brain loose, and you’d have a valid excuse to get out of next week’s.

“You heard what I said. Don’t act dumb.”

You carefully set your foot down, then swung your other leg up. “Where’s this coming from?”

Atsumu bent forward to touch his toes, ignorant of the passersby ogling his ass as they walked past. “Just answer the question.”

“Who’d be stupid enough to marry you.” You took a drink from your water bottle, not even blinking when he snagged it from you to finish it off.

He tossed the bottle in the air as the two of you started walking towards _Tenn_ _ōji-_ ku. “I think I’ve got a lot to offer. Besides I’d treat my woman right.”

“Please don’t refer to your future wife as ‘your woman’,” you groaned. “Why’re you bringing this up?”

“Guess it’s true what they say. When you start gettin’ older you start thinkin’ about things different.” He absentmindedly tapped the bottle against his leg as you snuck a peek at him. He’d insisted on eating before your weekly run, then yelled at you when you wanted to go before resting for an hour, which meant – for better or for worse, depending on how you looked at it – he was currently bathed in golden hour light, his profile gilded by the setting sun. “You still in there?”

You turned away as quickly as you could, his smug stare burning into the side of your head as you affected an air of indifference. “What kind of things are you talking about?”

“I dunno. Things you haven’t thought about before. Things that might matter as much as volleyball.”

You snorted. “As _much_ as volleyball, not more?”

“Is that bad?” He looked genuinely confused, and you gave a soft, affectionate sigh.

“Your future wife might have an issue with that.”

He hummed, bouncing the bottle between your leg and his, slightly off-beat. “Why can’t it be both? Why can’t they both matter the same?”

“That’s not how it works. Some people might be offended that you value a sport over them.” You snatched the bottle from his hand, throwing it in the recycling as you glared at him.

“But it’s my job. And I love volleyball so she should be happy I love her just as much.”

You shook your head fondly. What a nut. “What if you have to choose one over the other?”

Atsumu scoffed dramatically, like you just tried to tell him you were a better setter than he was.  
“This is stupid. Yer just guessin’—”

“But what if. What if she sat you down and said, ‘Stupid Atsumu—’”

“She’s not gonna call me that.”

“If she’s _your_ wife, she’s definitely going to call you that.”

“At least make it kinda cute!”

You pinched his side, and he tugged on your ear. “Okay, fine. So she goes, ‘Stupid ‘Tsumu—’”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ugh, _fine_.”

“Anyway, she sits you down and says, ‘Stupid ‘Tsumu, it’s me or volleyball. Which one do you choose?’”

He hesitated a fraction of a moment too long, and in that brief eternity you already knew what his answer was going to be. “It’s my job. I can’t give that up.”

“What if she just wanted to you take a break for like…a week or something?”

“Durin’ tournament season, or off-season? ‘Cause it’s no for tournaments, but off-season…” He waffled over his answer for a bit. “Can’t she just come to the gym with me?”

Incensed by whatever look you were giving him, he elbowed you. “I’m happy and livin’ the way I want; why would I stop my dream for her?”

You pushed his arm away, and frowned, staring at the sidewalk. “You’re really always going to be your first priority, huh?”

“We could both be first.” He poked his index fingers together. “Like a tie.”

“ _At-su-mu_.”

“I’m tellin’ ya I’m willin’ to share the spot. I’d make room for her.”

“Well, what if you wanted her to do something for you to make you happy? You’d want her to do it, right? Shouldn’t you do the same for her?” For a moment you weren’t in the twilight streets of Osaka; you were standing in the middle of a very familiar apartment, packed bags that didn’t belong to you by the door as you cried and begged for Tamaki to stay.

"That’s— depends what it is.”

“But it’s okay for her to do it?” Your voice was flat and made Atsumu double-take, frowning at the tense set of your jaw.

“Why’re you gettin’ so riled up about this?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes? No?” He flinched at the look you were giving him; it was cold, condescending, reminiscent of the first time he’d met you. “I dunno! If we’re talkin’ about our jobs, it shouldn’t matter!”

You were prickly with irritation, too turned around to try and figure out if he’d said what you wanted to hear; he was acting like it was easy situation, and it made you feel a little sick. It was different just talking about it than living it; didn’t he know that? Didn’t he know how hard it was to live out two dreams at the same time? Then again… You peeked at him, at his furrowed brow as he muttered something intelligible under his breath. Atsumu never mentioned women or dating around you, conversations about himself always about high school anecdotes, how practice was, or how he’d almost managed to push ‘Samu in the river the other day.

Relationships were probably easy for him; from the way he was talking, it seemed pretty obvious he’d never had any trouble choosing volleyball over someone else, and the thought made your heart sink a little bit. Had he also expected that of his exes; had he also knelt before them, tenderly touched their faces and told them they just needed to sacrifice this one tiny thing, this silly little hobby for them to achieve happiness?

Atsumu gently nudged your arm with his, pulling you from your thoughts as he quietly mumbled, “I guess I could do it.”

“Do what.”

He heaved a giant sigh, leaning heavily against you as you struggled to keep from slipping onto the street. “Give up volleyball sometimes, if she was really worth it.”

You pushed back until you were veering away from the curb. “That’s not vague at all.”

Atsumu put more of his weight on you and you yelped. “I mean, I wouldn’t miss a game for her. Or practice. And I got too many sponsorships I can’t give up either.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re giving anything up.” You wiggled out from underneath him, laughing as he squawked and nearly tumbled into the road.

“Maybe,” he pushed at the back of your head, grinning at your glower, “but if she loves me she’d understand that it’s just part of my job. And if I love her...I’d do almost anythin’ to make her happy.”

You slowed to walk beside him again, smiling as he leaned up against you again. “You act like balancing life and work is just that easy.”

“I’d figure something out. But,” he held up a finger and waggled in in your face, “only if she’s worth it.”

“And how’re you going to know if she’s worth it?”

“I’ll know.”

“How, by comparing her to volleyball? What’re you going to do, try and spike serve her across the court?”

He just smiled, and gently checked your hip with his before moving away. “I’ll know. Anyway,” he drawled, stretching his arms above his head, “what about you. You wanna get married?”

You crossed your index fingers, shaking your head and ignoring the way he wrinkled his nose. “Nuh-uh, you were confessing your secret sappy feelings, not me.”

“I toldja what I think.”

“And?”

He slowed at the gate to your apartment building, blocking your way in as he placed his hands on his hips. “You’re real tight lipped about this kinda stuff aren’tcha?”

“‘Cause it’s none of your beeswax.” You tried to skirt around him; he grabbed at your waist and you swore his fingerprints branded into your skin, the warmth of his hand burning through the thin fabric of your t-shirt.

“Beeswax!” Atsumu repeated with glee, easily holding you in place while you squirmed. He looked at you seriously as he moved a little closer. “Let’s go for a drink tonight.”

The heady mixture of his deodorant and fabric softener made your legs feel like jelly, the faint scent of his sweat making your brain short-circuit as you struggled to keep from looking down at his mouth. “What?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Atsumu gave you what he hoped was a winning smile. “Besides you look stressed; live a little. You got tomorrow off anyway, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Have a drink with me.”

“I’m not having a drink with you.”

“Great.” He let you go and gave you a salute, walking backwards and relishing the adorably stubborn pout on your face. “I’ll come getcha at 10.”

“I’m not letting you in!” you yelled back, but he just flapped his hand and disappeared around the corner.

True to your word, you didn’t let him in. In fact, you’d dithered about your apartment, loudly telling yourself you were only getting ready in case he somehow managed to break into your apartment and forcibly drag you to the bar. When 10:00 changed to 10:01 and there was no annoying buzzing noise coming from your phone, you were convinced the slight disappointment you felt was just mild indigestion. At 10:02 someone tried to open your door, swearing once they realized it was locked.

“Why’s your door locked?!”

You breathed a sigh of relief, resting your forehead against the door as you shut your eyes. “Who is it?”

“Ha ha, why’s it locked?”

You quickly unlocked the door, smiling sweetly at the ‘tch’ he gave you as he walked in. “You didn’t call me.”

“Your door’s never locked,” he grumbled, waiting while you gathered you things, kicking over then fixing the corner of your rug with his foot.

“Yeah, when I know you’re coming over.” You rolled your eyes at the look he gave you, not really that surprised he’d assumed you just left your apartment door wide open for him to stop by whenever he pleased.

You were both quietly waiting for the elevator as you texted Mikoto a few instructions to make his first solo Sunday a little easier, but you could feel the insistent pressure of his gaze as you tried to think. You arched an eyebrow as you looked at him, and he just smiled, stepping into the elevator as you rolled your eyes and followed him.

The elevator hummed as you typed and Atsumu watched, you muttering under your breath, him fighting the urge to whistle. When the elevator reached the lobby he settled on a,

“…you look good.”

Your thumb slipped and you misspelled a word. “…what?”

Atsumu didn’t answer, just walked ahead after smirking at you, smug and content with the flustered look on your face. You scrambled to catch up, hastily sending off your messages. “Wait!”

He looked at you expectantly, and you snapped your open mouth shut. You’d always known he was a little bit of a flirt, but a handful of sweet nothings weren’t enough to mean real interest; really, you had to stop reading into things like this.

“You look good too,” is what you said instead, and he gave you that smile you were growing very fond of as you interrupted him with a, “Yeah, I know you know.”

He did look good; you weren’t lying. For someone who insisted on bleaching his hair nearly platinum blonde, he looked good in all black. His t-shirt probably cost more than your entire outfit, the way it draped across his broad chest screaming ‘luxury’, and the narrow fit of the pants he was wearing were stylishly cuffed, the white contrast stitching matching the squeaky-clean soles of his shoes.

Even in the smoky, muted light of the bar he brought you to, he seemed to shine too brightly. Like he was telling the rest of the patrons, “I’m here. I’ve arrived. Look at me.” Look they did. You saw the turning heads, a few people asking for a photo or for his autograph, the rest curiously watching with ill-disguised interest. The table he chose in the corner made you feel a little less exposed under everyone’s scrutiny, but your position towards the back of the bar also gave you the opportunity to see just who exactly was looking at him, and what particular sin they had in mind.

The beer he got you hit the spot, and helped to take the edge off of the bitter taste of tequila when he insisted you do a shot with him. You shuddered around your lime wedge, flicking condensation at him when he laughed and called you a baby. You felt yourself relaxing as the night wore on, no longer apprehensive about Mikoto working alone, and no longer wincing whenever Atsumu ordered another shot. The edges of your mind felt fuzzy, but pleasantly so, the rest of your body perking up as the alcohol did its duty, flooding you with dopamine. You barely felt the twinge in your gut as you watched Atsumu’s eyes track a woman when she walked past him, the two of them exchanging a long, lingering glance even after she’d returned to her friends.

He was grinning a little as he took another swig of his beer. “What. Why’re you lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” The look he gave you _screamed_ , ‘Don’t get cute with me’. “Well…” you peeled a strip off the label on your beer bottle, “maybe you can get married to her.”

Atsumu choked and shot you a dirty look. “We’re not startin’ up with this again.”

“I’m just saying, don’t let me get in the way of you having a good night.”

His brows pinched together as he set his drink down. “What makes you think I’m not havin’ a good night?”

“You know!” You gestured subtly in the direction of the other woman, the tequila sitting unhappily in your stomach as it contorted. “If she’s your type, then you should go for it.”

“And how do you know who’s my type and who isn’t?”

“I can guess. Tall. Hot.” He snorted and at that and you grinned. “Probably put together and with a big—”

“Keep goin’.”

“You know what I mean.” You took a sip as you smiled mischievously around your beer. “Someone who works hard.”

He pointed at you with his bottle, matching you grin for grin. “You’re not wrong. There’s just somethin’ about someone knowin’ what they want in life and just goin’ for it.” He paused. Furrowed his brow.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I just…”

“Don’t think too hard about it,” you said with a snort, checking your phone on the off-chance Mikoto replied.

Atsumu shifted his chair a little closer to yours, resting his forearms on the table as he surveyed you for what felt like an eternity. Something in his eyes flashed, like something clicked into place, though you hadn’t the faintest idea what on earth he had rolling around his head beside an entire year’s supply of volleyballs. The corner of his mouth twitched up a little bit as his eyebrows jumped, and he let out a deep breath you didn’t know he’d been holding.

Carefully, his knuckles brushed yours and you jerked your hands back at the spark that seemed to ignite between your hands, cradling your beer by your chest. “What about you? You see anyone that’s your type in here?”

The way he was looking at you…

Eyes the colour of warm caramel were darkened to a strong, rich espresso in the bar lighting, the intensity in them shaking you awake more than any coffee could. You felt like you had the wind knocked out of you, your body humming with anticipation for _something_ as you tried to put an emotion to the way he was watching and waiting for you. The gears tucked away in the rusty, corded off corner of your mind that dealt with reading signals gave a long-suffering squeak, and slowly began to turn; you could picture it: a tiny version of yourself scampering about, polishing and oiling wherever she saw fit.

“I don’t have a type,” you blurted out, panic settling in when you realized you’d kept him waiting for a little too long. It was the truth, and maybe not the answer he wanted to hear, but you needed a little more time to grease the wheels, to get the gears running a little smoother so they could get you where you needed to go.

“Everyone has a type.” He didn’t back away, sliding instead a little bit closer towards you, like he was about to share a sensitive secret. “Don’tcha wanna get married?”

You frowned and hunched forward, pointing a finger suspiciously at him. “Why are _you_ bringing this up again? I thought you said we weren’t going there.”

“That was for me; I never said anythin’ about you.” Atsumu gently clinked the lip of bottle against yours. “Go on. Tell me.”

“Why are you doing this to me,” you muttered, drinking the rest of your beer to avoid his gaze. It was warm by now, and you stuck your tongue out at the taste.

He acted as if you haven’t spoken, pressing onward. “Are you sayin’ you’ve never even thought about it?”

“No, I have it’s just— I don’t want that right now.”

“Then what do ya want?” Atsumu gestured for two more beers, and you groaned, part of you knowing if you didn’t answer now, he probably would never let it go.

“I want to be successful and sell pastries and be happy,” you said eventually, and he laughed, loud and boyish as he shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily.

“You’re already there.” He slid you another drink, knocking the bottleneck against his. “What else do ya want?”

The bubbles fizzed across your lips and tongue as you watched the pull of his throat while he drank, and you almost took a beat too long to say, “That’s it. Success is relative, and I think I still have more to accomplish.”

“What about after you’re done all that, when you think you’ve done enough?”

“What? Do _you_ think you’ll ever be done with volleyball? Like, you’ll suddenly go, ‘Oh, that’s it; I’m good! I don’t want anymore medals’?” He just waggled his eyebrows at you and you stubbornly drank until he stopped, smacking your lips when you were done. “Right. I forgot; you’re going to find your ‘worthy wife’ and live happily ever after.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t find someone too.” Atsumu reached out a finger to swipe against one of yours, the drag of his nail making goosebumps ripple across your skin.

You were finding it harder and harder to really look him in the eye, your own eyes skittering away every few seconds. The quiet ferocity he was regarding you with felt too much like that night long ago, when he’d held your face in his hands and just looked at you like he was studying every square inch of you. Like he was peeling back the layers you’d wrapped tight around yourself, slowly unravelling you the same way he did your croissants. You’d made fun of him for it at the time, asking why you even bothered rolling them in the first place is he was just going to desecrate them like that. He’d just licked the butter and crumbs off his fingers, staring you in the eye the whole time. “ _I do what I want_.” 

“Well, maybe I will find someone.”

“Maybe you should start lookin’ now.”

The easy way he said it just rubbed you the wrong way. You were still struggling over the _look_ he’d been giving you this entire time, and everything he was saying was poking at you in all the wrong places. Your temper flared and you slapped a hand on the table, leaning forward to hiss, “I don’t want a boyfriend! I want—!”

He arched an eyebrow at you, leaning forward until he was a scant few inches away. “You want what?”

“...nothing.”

“Don’t leave me hangin’ like that.” He really did poke you this time, right in the cheek before wrapping a large hand around your wrist and tugging on your arm, trying to jostle you into saying something. “S’not fair! I told you so much floofy stuff today and you’re just gonna act like you don’t got anythin’ to say—”

You snatched your hand from his and grumbled something into your beer. He cocked his head, cupped a hand around his ear, and impatiently gestured for you to speak again.

“I _said_ I just want—” You fumed silently, vindictively deciding that maybe it’d be worth saying just to see the look on his face. So you moved closer, draping yourself halfway across the table to hiss in his ear. “I just want to get _laid_.”

His reaction was underwhelming, to say the least. He didn’t blush or choke on his beer; he just sat back in his chair, acting for all intents and purposes like you’d just told him the sky was blue. “That’s it, huh?”

“That’s—” You almost choked on air, curling in on yourself as mortification cheerily marched its fiery path up the back of your neck and across your cheeks. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”

“Is that why Makki told you get under someone?”

You shushed him frantically, flapping your hands at him as you nervously scanned the bar. The last thing you wanted was for people to overhear how pathetically dry your sex life was at the moment. It wasn’t necessarily your fault; a bad break-up and opening a fledging business left no room for anything else. You gently bounced your head off the lip of your beer, praying for someone to erase your memory of the last five minutes. “I can’t believe you remember—hang on, since when do you call him Makki?”

“Since he told me he could.” He waggled his phone in front of your face, and you let a long-suffering grumble about stupid Makki and his stupid ability to bond with everyone he met and his stupid _inability_ to leave his nose out of anyone’s business. Atsumu didn’t exactly agree with you in as many words, but his low chuckle still warmed your belly. “You just wanna get laid, huh?”

You propped your chin in your hand, feeling for all the world as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. It was nice admitting that to somebody, able to actually discuss your needs and desires without the other person snarkily telling you that maybe you should give Iwa a call, or offering to pay for your one-way ticket to Argentina so you could meet a Spanish speaking seductor. You smiled goofily, tilting your head in what you hoped was an endearing way. “That’s it.”

“…I could do that for ya.”

Your chin slipped as your wrist crumpled, your mouth hanging open as you stared speechlessly at Atsumu. He had that same look in his eye, the one that hadn’t really ever gone away, the one that told you plain and simple—

‘ _Ah_.’ The gears in your mind whirred to a halt, your internal monologue smiling as she pounded her fist in her hand. ‘ _I know what that look means!_ ’

—he was going to devour you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Infatuation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnCyC1vvf94)
> 
> Me?? Ending on a cliffhanger???? In this economy????? Find me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	11. affogato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Smut warning at the beginning!**
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for all the love for this fic wowowowowowow I still can't believe it??? Please know I love and appreciate every single one of you and I cannot let y'all know enough how happy this makes me! I'm in the middle of midterm hell right now so seeing your comments, kudos, and bookmarks always bring a smile to my face. :) 🍰🥐💕

Atsumu wanted to whisk you home as soon as you nodded, your eyes fluttering, lashes dusting the curve of your cheek as you sipped at your drink. Instead, he clenched his jaw and made himself pull his mouth away from where it was gravitating dangerously close to yours. He did allow himself the indulgence of pressing a knee between your legs, your thighs clenching around his as he watched you, soaking up the way you kept looking away from him. He promised himself he’d make sure you were watching him tonight, gluing your eyes to his as he pushed and pulled you apart with his mouth and hands.

The bill was paid, a taxi was called, and his hand was trailing down along the curve of your back as he ushered you towards the corner where the car sat idling. His lips brushed along the shell of your ear, voice rough with poorly disguised desire as he asked, “You’re sure about this?”

The words were stuck in your throat, but he waited, hand on the door handle, thumb rubbing slow circles at the base of your spine. “I’m sure.”

It was all Atsumu needed to open the door, rattling off an address you barely heard, if the glazed look in your eyes was anything to go by. He couldn’t help himself, ignoring the inquisitive eyes of the driver as he laid on large hand above your knee and squeezed, massaging his fingers into the tender flesh, like he was trying to mold your body with his. He held you tight to his side as he walked you to his apartment, the lobby, the elevator, his own front door, everything a passing blur with the heat of your body pressed up against him.

He shifted you so you were in front of him, his hands grabbing at your hips as he walked you to the bedroom, the soft grind of your ass against his cock making his mouth water. When he first met you, he’d known he was hungry, but now, he was _starving._ He kissed you fervently, desperately, licking into your mouth and moaning at how sweet everything about you was. The sound of your voice, the taste of your tongue, the way you pulled at his shirt to draw him closer, demanding more. Your hands ran greedily down the length of his chest, sliding and squeezing as he trailed his mouth down your neck, licking and sucking as you writhed beneath him.

Breathless, his looked at you with fever-bright eyes, panting softly against your swollen lips. “Last chance.” He bit gently on your lower lip, pulling with his teeth until it popped out.

You fisted your hands in his hair and pulled, eliciting a deep groan from him that vibrated through your entire body. “Shut up.”

Atsumu eagerly obliged, slipping calloused hands underneath the hem of your shirt, stroking and pinching until you hissed at him to stop teasing and get on with it. The smirk he gave you was filled with promise, and he stripped you bare.

His hands pushed your pliant limbs into his mattress, his eyes dragging like sticky honey along your body as he licked his lips, his hands following in their wake. He pressed your legs apart, spreading your knees like butterfly wings, his breath hitching as he stared intently at the mess between your thighs. “Is this all for me? _Baby_ ,” he purred, and you shivered, panting heavily. “I’m just _dyin’_ for a taste.” 

He stroked a thumb slow and purposeful along your dripping slit as your fingers twisted in his sheets, your knuckles white as he watched you watch him lick his thumb clean.

“Atsumu.” Your voice was thin and reedy, as tense as your hips as you arched them off the bed. “Just fuck me already.”

His eyes flashed, and he shed his clothes, slowly, meticulously, revealing inch after inch of perfectly sculpted, carefully maintained muscle. He looked like somebody had carved him, lovingly etched each long line of his body with power and grace in mind. The sharp v that framed the edge of boxer-briefs was dusted with a smattering of black hair, and when he tugged his underwear free, he smirked at the look on your face as his cock bobbed free. You shifted restlessly on his bed as he caged you from above, his fingers skimming down your side, his mouth peppering your face with kisses as you tried to capture his lips with yours, clutching at his shoulders.

The bite of your nails in his shoulders made Atsumu hiss, your smirking face drawing his attention. You wanted to play dirty? He was fine with that. He pressed a finger past your folds, watching with no small measure of awe as your lips parted, your jaw growing slack as you clenched around him. He fucked it into you slowly, curling and dragging, making you whine against him. Impatient, he added a second, the slick sound of you grinding down on his hand with each movement making his head swim. His cock was achingly hard pressed against your thigh, each quivering jerk of your hips smearing pre-cum along your leg. His patience was wearing thin, he needed to be _inside_ you, needed to see your face as he split you open on his cock, fucking you so hard you couldn’t breathe—

As Atsumu pushed in a third finger, watching the way you sucked it in, your hand came to rest shakily on his cheek. He looked up at you, eyes heavy with desire, and his breath caught in his throat. The way you were looking up at him, past the glaze in your eyes, the soft part of your lips, the graceful slope of your throat… Your hand slid to the back of his neck, pressing his forehead against his as your hips urged his hand faster, the delicious heat building deep inside you making your eyes squeeze shut. “A-Atsumu…!”

He couldn’t look away, the sound of you calling his name making his cock jump. He drank everything in: your body growing taut, your mouth quivering as you mewled, the pitch of your voice rising higher and _higher_ , the sharp gasp that punched itself out of your throat as you threw your head back and _moaned_ — Atsumu could see you carefully unfurling, a delicate, fleeting moment that tasted so _sweet_. He surged forward and kissed you, breathless and sloppy and tender. The growling urgency in him settled somewhat, no longer struggling to be set free as he watched you come down, his eyes wide.

You’d never said it aloud and everything you’d done up until now spoke the opposite, but he was sure he’d heard it. It was soft and shy, whispered to him in the way you melted against him when he kissed you, in the way your hands were bashfully fluttering across his back; _take care of me_.

So he did.

He wiped his hands clean and kissed every part of you he could reach. He made his way down your body mapping everything with his tongue, and licked and sucked until you came apart again, then lapped up everything you had to give, careful not to waste a drop. He grazed his thumbs along the sensitive seam at the tops of your thighs, pressing the thick girth of him slowly inside you, and he waited, hips flush against yours, panting against the curve of your shoulder because it was _warm_ and _tight_ until you tugged his hair and said his name, wanton and _needy_ and wonderful. He gave and gave and gave until you were gasping for air, stuttering that you couldn’t take anymore. It was only then that he came, shuddering apart and flying back together again in the careful circle of your arms.

The rest of the night was hazy for both of you, lazily cleaning each other up before tumbling back into bed, tangling your hands and legs together before falling asleep, satiated and deeply, deeply satisfied.

You never slept well after a night of drinking, the alcohol trying to sweat its way out of your body leaving you overheated and uncomfortable. You shifted around as you tried to kick off the duvet, desperate to feel more of the A/C on your heated skin. A hand patted at your face, Atsumu’s low groan letting you know he was awake, and he wasn’t happy about it.

You sputtered around his palm, still trying to fling the covers off. “It’s _hot—_ ”

“Shhh,” he mumbled, presumably trying to pat at your cheek, but hitting your nose instead. “We’re sleepin’.”

When you didn’t stop squirming his hand slapped heavy on your ass, and you were two seconds away from telling him off when he pulled and the edge of his blanket swept off you, leaving you blissfully cool. Certain you were happy, he shuffled a little closer and wrapped an arm around you, shoving his face into your neck as he mumbled drowsily, not noticing the way you froze. “You good now?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your hands hovering awkwardly above his body. “You’re stupidly warm, you know that?”

He groaned and buried his face deeper into your neck, brushing a kiss against it as he squeezed you a little tighter. “Mornin’ to you too.” He poked his head up, his bedhead making his bangs stick straight up as he grinned at you. “You hungry? I can’t cook as nice as you, but I’m not half-bad at makin’ breakfast.”

It sounded like there were alarm bells going off in your head, everything about this morning – the open, expectant way he was looking at you, the hand running up and down your back, the kiss that still lingered along your neck – setting you on edge. “I have to go.”

You slipped out of bed and were too busy struggling with your bottoms to notice the shadow that crossed his face, and by the time you turned his way he was dramatically flopping back onto his pillows, arms flung wide. “Wasn’t to your likin’?”

The delicious ache in your body contradicted that, but you fumbled for your words all the same. “It’s not you, it’s—”

“You? Or is it really about me?”

You tugged your shirt on. “I just have a lot on my plate right now.”

“You know…” He sat up, flattening the sheets bunching up around his waist as he spoke the words he’d said many times before, feeling for some reason like he was playing a parody of himself. “Nobody said anythin’ about it needin’ to be serious. Just if you’ve ever need to scratch an itch…”

“I’ll let you know. …I’m gonna head out.” Your socks were balled up in an anxious fist, your toes curling in the soft tread of his carpet. “And um…you can stay here. I can see myself out.”

Atsumu inhaled sharply like he wanted to say something and then hesitated, taking three slow breaths to ease apart the painful ache in his chest. “…alright.”

He watched you leave the room, disappearing around the corner, but he didn’t dare lay down again until he heard the click of the front door opening, then shutting. Even then, he waited with bated breath and counted five minutes passing on his phone before he let himself let out all the air in his lungs and slowly shut his eyes.

Anybody could see that Atsumu was distracted.

Osamu might’ve had an inkling when Atsumu barged into his apartment just a few days prior, hair un-styled, shirt on backwards as he threw himself facedown onto the couch and then sulkily told ‘Samu he ‘didn’t wanna talk about it’ every time his twin tried to ask what was wrong.

Even now during practice he couldn’t get himself to focus; his serves were wonky and he nearly smacked Tomas in the head; his sets were just slightly off, a little too high or a little too low, or a little too close to the net or whatever Omi-Omi kept bitchin’ at him. It was driving him crazy. He squeezed a volleyball between his fingers, pretending it was your face he was trying to squash as he looked around at the steadily emptying gym. He didn’t want to leave; he wanted to get things _right_. But Foster- _san_ had already looked pointedly at his watch three times now and tapped it twice, and he didn’t feel like getting another lecture about spending too much time at the gym again.

He bounced the ball once, twice, pushed the foreign, frightened look on your face out of his mind, and threw it in the air. There was this instance when he served where it was like time stopped, where he would take a moment right before he kicked off the ground, calves flexing, feet swinging behind him. The motion of the ball would slow, and he could see his serve toss, analyze it, figure out the best way to adjust his body to suit whatever just left his fingers. But this week, every time he paused to jump, swinging his arms to maximize movement, all he heard was ‘ _I can see myself out_ ’.

His hand hit the ball and it rolled off the edge of his pinky, sending it careening right into the net.

“Shit.” Atsumu wiped at the sweat under his chin and automatically reached for another ball.

“It’s late, Miya; time to head home.”

He wanted to do another serve, just to see what Foster- _san_ would do, but he let the ball slip from his fingers as he walked away, filled with bitterness. He was angry. Angry at himself for wasting a week of practice. Angry at himself for not insisting on walking you to his door. Angry at himself for foolishly believing there’d been _something_ in your eyes, a hunger for more, for Atsumu. Angry at you for keeping him at arm’s length and then walking away like he’d been nothing more than a mistake. You’d been dodging him over text, and it was rubbing him raw that you were treating him like a complete stranger.

He barely remembered his trip home, his feet leading him from the train station to his apartment through force of habit alone. He put away his shoes. Keys. Dropped his bag on the bedroom floor, crouching to remove his sweaty clothes to pop them in the hamper and now…now he was angry at himself for getting all worked up over a stupid laundry basket. He’d changed the sheets Sunday morning soon after it became clear you weren’t coming back, but they were still sitting in his hamper, waiting to be washed. His knuckles turned white around his dri-FIT shirt, and he flung it into the basket, operating in reverse. Keys. Shoes. Left his apartment.

It was purely coincidence that he got inside your building, and he was hammering away at your apartment door like you owed him money before he really came back to his senses. By then he heard your grumbling complaints growing louder as you drew nearer, and he picked up his bruised pride, gave it a wipe or two, and summoned the most offended voice he could muster as your door swung open.

“When’re you gonna stop avoidin’ me?!”

The door across the hall creaked open, as you gaped at him. Nosy neighbours seemed to kick you into action as you hurried him inside, still giving him that deer in headlights look, phone clutched to your chest. He barrelled onward, momentum high; like he was runnin’ towards his serve toss, getting’ ready to jump—

“You’re the one who’s makin’ it weird, y’know. I never said anythin’ sappy about wantin’ to marry you or—or datin’ you, so why can’tcha untwist your panties and get over the fact that we fucked around?!”

“…Osamu, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to call you back later.”

Whoops. Out of bounds.

“What’re you callin’ ‘Samu for?!”

The furrow in your brow told him he just asked something stupid. “We were finalizing everything for the _Tenjin Matsuri_. He just wanted to double check we’ll have enough food until the river procession. We’re doing a stall, remember?”

Of course, Atsumu only remembered now, the flurry of conversations about the upcoming boat festival slowly coming into focus as he recalled his half-hearted responses to ‘Samu’s plans, the cutting, “I’ll kick you into the river if you’re still mopin’ by then” he’d received in return.

He had little time to contemplate this, your forehead already un-creasing and the corners of your mouth tilting downwards, the same careful shuttering of your face from that awful morning. “What’re you doing here?”

The last thing he wanted right now was to be soft, to take you by the hands and run his thumbs over the back of your palms. His fingers curled with how _little_ he wanted to do that. “I said what I said. You’re actin’ like I’m fallin’ in love with you just ‘cause we kissed a coupla times—”

“It’s…that’s not what I think!”

“I know you’re not fallin’ in love with me neither!” Something twinged in his chest and he wrote it off as his bruised ego. “So, stop actin’ all weird about it already.”

You fiddled with your phone as he waited with bated breath, crossing his arms just for the sake of something to do. “We’re still friends?”

“’Course we are,” he said gruffly, masking his thawing demeanor as he placed one large hand on your elbow, sliding it towards your back to pull you into a one-armed hug when you didn’t flinch away. The way you melted into him with a shuddering sigh of relief had him wrapping his other arm around you too. “It was just casual. Casual! Helpin’ a friend in need and stuff like that.”

Things were fixed now; he was pretty sure of that. And it didn’t matter that he’d accidentally been a little too vulnerable, reading the whole situation wrong. He’d covered up his tracks pretty well, and the two of you could go back to normal, as soon as he washed the bitter taste of his lie out of his mouth.

“If we’re going to do this, we need some ground rules.”

He froze. Grabbed you by the shoulders. Pushed you to arm’s length so quickly your head spin. “ _Huh?_ ”

Your mouth was twisted to the side, your palms a little sweaty as you tried to read the emotions on his face. “Casual, right? Then what happens here,” you gestured between your body and his, “can’t confuse what we are outside there.”

Atsumu’s hands gave a long, hard squeeze, then the cocky smile he always wore draped across his face, his chin tilting down to give you a smouldering look that warmed you from the inside out. “Can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

You glowered and pinched his side. “I’m not done. No cuddling, no snuggling, no— Nothing that will blur the line between us being friends.”

“Fine. But don’t come cryin’ to me later when your feet get cold.”

You took a moment to yourself, carefully eyeing him. “No sleeping over either.”

No morning kisses, no trailing his fingers down your back, no tender, sleepy offers to make you breakfast.

“You snore anyway.”

“I do _not_.”

“You do. Real loud, too. Almost as loud as ‘Samu.” His hands slid upwards, thumbs tracing along the column of your throat as his pupils dilated. One hand dared to drift upwards, his thumb resting on your bottom lip, and you could see the gears turning in his head, the steady chug of mischief as his eyes glimmered, and you glared.

“Don’t.”

Atsumu snapped his mouth shut and grinned, holding his hands by his head in an attempt to placate you. “Didn’t say nothin’.”

You pulled your shirt off and threw it to the side, relishing in the way he looked appraisingly at your bared skin, his eyes tracing down your neck, along your collarbone, then down to your chest. “You looked like you were thinking something stupid.”

“Wasn’t gonna say anythin’.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged on his hair, daring him to do something as his hands, calloused from years of training, drifted to your waist.

“Why don’tcha tell me what you were thinkin’ about then?” he asked, his breath ghosting across your lips.

So you did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Wicked Games](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1OTWCd40bc)
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr about idiots in love [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	12. angel food cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters!! I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do! 😍🍰🥐 Thank you so much for all of your wonderful (and hilarious) comments and for dropping a kudos!!!!!!!

“We’re doin’ pretty good right now.”

You peered around Osamu to take note of what needed to be restocked, grinning as you noticed the depleted stores. “We are! Want me to grab more buns?”

“I can get it.” He strode past you as you smiled at a few approaching customers, barely feeling the sweat beading along your brow. The heat haze that lingered in the air seemed to blur and muddle the chatter of the people wandering along the banks of the Okawa River, the cloudless sky and vibrant trees shading the row of food stalls adding to the dreamy quality. The banner that declared the collaborative effort between your shops hung proud above your head, the bold white lettering brilliant in the summer sun. A part of you was still having a hard time grasping that you were here, the protests you’d told Osamu just yesterday fresh in your mind.

_“It’s your recipe and your stall; I don’t want to interfere—”_

_“Y’know you put in just as much work as I did, right?” He tapped the counter with a stern finger, as if that was all the evidence he needed to convince you. “You deserve to be there just as much as me.”_

Setting down the tray of steamed buns beside you, he handed you a pair of tongs. “Gimme a hand.”

You obliged, keeping yourself busy as the sun slipped across the sky. Distantly the sound of shouts, flutes, and drums grew louder as the _rikutogyo_ , the land procession, wound its way through the streets to stop at the Tenjin pier. The crowd grew thicker, throngs of people squeezing down the street and wandering between the trees, several people already camping out along the edge of the river, pressed against the banister. You craned your neck to peer over the shifting mass of bodies as the river procession – _funatogyo_ – started. The boats sailed off down the river, the crowds clapping along as faint voices from the river called out the _Osakahime_ in greeting.

“ _Uchimasho_!” Everyone did as they were asked, clapping their hands.

You thanked a young boy as he paid, watching as he slipped between people with ease to make his way to the river.

“ _Mohitotsuse_!” Again, they called. Obediently, you clapped your hands along with the crowd as Osamu chuckled.

“ _Iotte sando_!”

He joined you, clapping the three times they’d asked as you grinned at him. “You ever been to this festival before?”

“First time,” you admitted, watching the boldly painted boats sail past. “You picked a good spot though.”

“Had a little help.”

He nodded at the group of girls shyly dithering about, looking starry-eyed as he acknowledged them. You grinned when you recognized them from months ago, nostalgia making you quietly laugh as you recalled the group of you staring dreamily at the man now standing next to you. It was funny how things changed, how you’d gone from admiring Osamu and the way he filled out his apron, to the careful diligence he applied when he shaped _onigiri_ , or filled _butaman_.

The riverbank only grew more crowded as time went on, and you barely had a second to pause and take a breath as the sun disappeared behind the tall buildings across from you. When evening hit Kagura, one of Osamu’s workers, took over the stall, finally giving you and Osamu a chance to rest under the cherry trees. The heat had broken somewhat, and the bottles of _ramune_ Osamu traded onigiri for were refreshingly sweet. The marble rattled around in the soda bottle as you drank, the chiming glass making you feel like you were five years old again. It’d been a wonderful day, almost too perfect to believe.

“Thank you.”

Osamu pushed his sweat-damp hair off his forehead as he adjusted his hat. “For what?”

You scraped your nail along edge of the plastic label on your bottle, a faint chuckle escaping you. “For choosing to work with me.”

He wiped his hand on his shorts, making a face back at you at the look you gave him for it. “I should be thankin’ you too then. Should be thankin’ shitty ‘Tsumu for not shuttin’ up about you and your bakin’ too, but then he won’t shut up about that either.”

You leaned back on your hands, the grass tickling your palms. “Sounds like him.”

“You know, I’ve never seen him really interested in anythin’ other than volleyball before.”

“Yeah, he told me that. He’s not the kind of guy to give up what he loves.” You lolled your head from side to side, trying to stretch the kinks in your neck.

“Not even a little bit.” Osamu chuckled and drained the rest of his soda. “I think it’s ‘cause it takes so long for things to get through that thick skull of his, but I’m tellin’ you: the minute it clicks he doesn’t let it go.”

“Mm. He does tend to do whatever he wants.” You could feel your mood growing sour in spite of Osamu’s snort, and you couldn’t figure out why. You were more than a little bitter as you muttered, “He’s always going to be his first priority.”

Osamu paused, mouth opening and closing, slowly putting the pieces together. “I think you heard me wrong—”

“ _There_ you are! There’s so many people here I thought I was gonna get squashed to death.” Atsumu stumbled to a stop beside his twin, snatching at his _ramune_ and groaning once he realized it was empty. “We gonna hafta go now if we’re gonna make it.”

You looked at him blankly. “Make what?”

He wiggled his fingers at you like _that_ would help you figure out what he was talking about. When that, predictably, did nothing, he grabbed you by the wrists and hoisted you up, untying your apron and throwing it into Osamu’s lap. “The fireworks; didja forget or somethin’?”

You glanced down at Osamu, who was peeling an apron string off his face. “But—”

Atsumu waved an impatient hand in front of your face, checking the time on his phone. “What’re you waitin’ around for?! He’s comin’ too! But if you’re both gonna just dick around, I’ll leave you behind!”

Osamu threw his apron at Atsumu, ignoring the squawk that it smelled like octopus. “Let me check in on Kagura before we go.”

Atsumu groaned and shook both aprons in the air. “You’re killin’ me here!”

As soon as Osamu was done the three of you hurried through the streets, Atsumu pushing his way through the crowds with insistent, unyielding sweeps of his arms. You’d trailed in his wake, easily cutting through the swathes of people he nudged to the side, nodding in apology after him as he bellowed “ _Excuse me_ ” into more than a few peoples’ ears. Closer to the Osaka Mint Museum the crowds thinned slightly, Atsumu lightly jogging down the street and yelling at you that he “hadn’t been takin’ you on runs for nothin’”, Osamu snapping right back at him that “he should quit tryin’ to catch flies with his mouth and get where he was goin’”.

“Tsum-tsum! Over here!” Bokuto bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, waving exuberantly as Akaashi neatly grabbed the drink from his hand before he poured it all over himself. His eyes widened once he caught sight of you, a bright grin on his face as he spread his powerful arms. “Ohhhhh! The baker!”

You waved hesitantly, sneaking a look at Atsumu, but he was greeting someone else, ruffling their bright orange hair. “Yes? That’s me?”

“Hey hey, what do you know about baking wedding cakes? I’m trying to figure out if I want a lot of layers, or maybe just one big one, you know? Like _fwoom_.” He brought his arms straight down, the breeze he’d generated brushing across your skin. The only things that kept you from shrinking away from the man towering over you waving his limbs about with wild abandon were the flowers and rays of sunshine you swore you saw coming off of him. “Tsum-tsum told me not to bug you too much you know, but I figured talking about your work wouldn’t be too bad. Hm, maybe not; he got pretty angry when I asked him if Samu-samu could make me an onigiri cake instead of— Ah! Not a cake shaped like an onigiri, but like a—hmmmmmm, actually…!”

He turned to look over his shoulder, and you took the moment to breathe and try to mentally catch up to him. You kind of knew how Wile E Coyote felt now, chasing after the roadrunner as it buzzed and beeped miles ahead. “Hey! Keiji! What about a cake shaped _like_ an onigiri?”

Keiji, you assumed, didn’t even blink, just pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and calmly replied, “We’ll keep our options open, Kotaro- _kun_.”

Atsumu looped an arm around your shoulders, inching you away from Bokuto’s emphatic nodding. “If you’re really havin’ an onigiri theme, ‘Samu’s gonna get jealous you’re takin’ his dream weddin’ from him—”

Osamu slid up on your other side, pinching the back of Atsumu’s hand with his nails. “Y’know, ‘Tsumu was tellin’ me the other day he _really_ wanted to make a speech at your weddin’. Some thing long and sappy and he _reaaaaally_ wants to go first—”

Whatever immature insult Atsumu was about to let out of his big fat mouth was cut short by the sound of fireworks whistling into the air. They bloomed like fiery, gilded asters across the night sky, bright and beautiful as they spiralled and sparkled, fizzing and crackling. The men around you whooped and cheered, Bokuto punching the air as his hand slid into Akaashi’s. It was sweet, and you said so to Osamu, grinning as he stared flatly at you as you needled at him to _consider_ making a giant onigiri cake, no matter how much of an offense he considered it to the art of making onigiri. You laughed as he told you to watch the damn fireworks, letting yourself fit comfortably against Atsumu’s side as you cheered along with the rest of them.

Maybe it was the weight of Atsumu’s arm around your shoulders, maybe it was the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia that filled your veins as you watched the fireworks burst in brilliant colour across the sky. Maybe it was the sweet taste of success, the satisfied ache in your bones after a long – but good – day at work.

You hardly noticed when ‘Samu’s eyes slid right, hardly noticed the way he had to fight the crackle of fondness and exasperation in his chest, tugging on the brim of his hat to hide his smile at the sight of Atsumu’s arm carelessly wrapped around your shoulders. ‘ _When’re you goin’ to tell her how you feel, you scrub?’_

While you were swept up in the cacophony of colour, the side of Atsumu’s face was tingling and he had this nasty feeling that someone somewhere was thinking rude things about him. He turned only to catch ‘Samu’s eye, the way he raised his eyebrows, and the deliberate way he looked from Atsumu’s arm, up to his face, then back again. Rolling his eyes Atsumu sneered, quickly glancing down to make sure he hadn’t disturbed you, and more importantly that you hadn’t caught sight of his antics. That was all. That was the only reason why his heart skipped a beat, why the barest smile tugged insistently at the corner of his mouth. And if he didn’t stop to think too much about the way the fireworks reflected in your eyes, bursts of sunset gold and emerald green, it was easier to feel like he had both feet firmly on the floor.

Atsumu helped you and his brother pack up, placing things into the van for only for Osamu to take them out and _neatly_ put them back in. He rode in the back of the van with you, sitting on top of the empty coolers with the folded banner resting carefully in his lap, and banging on the partition that blocked off the driver’s cabin every time he thought Osamu braked a little too hard on purpose.

“You wouldn’t stop gawkin’, like you’ve never seen fireworks before.”

“I wasn’t _gawking_ ,” you laughed, the flashlight in your phone wobbling as you kicked at his shins.

“Were too.” He kicked you back. “Like a little baby. A cute teeny tiny itty bitty little droolin’ _baby—”_

He smacked the pack of napkins you lobbed at him back at you, knocking your phone out of your hand as he grabbed at your arms, ignoring your giggles and protests that it was an _accident_. The van lurched and you yelped as you slid off the edge of the cooler, your feet skittering across the floor as they scrabbled for purchase.

Instinctively, Atsumu pulled you to him, bowing forward and bracing your forearms against his chest. Even with the unforgiving flashlight he looked unfairly handsome, a stray curl falling in front of his face as the two of you froze, the perfect tableau for a Harlequin romance cover. Your mouth went dry as you drowned in the smell of summer heat and warm laundry, of fresh coffee spiced with cardamom.

The door opened, the yellow glow of lamplight flooding the cargo area, Osamu illuminated from behind as Kagura blushed and averted her eyes.

Instinctively, Atsumu let go, dropping you twelve inches to the ground with a gentle thud. The only thing that hurt more than your ass was your pride, and you avoided Osamu’s pleasant smile, though you couldn’t escape the mischievous way he said,

“I’m guessin’ you guys enjoyed the ride.”

The van was unpacked, the coolers cleaned, and they along with everything else were safely stored upstairs under Osamu’s watchful eye. All four of you parted ways, Osamu shooting his brother a _look_ that made Atsumu’s face burn as he flipped his twin off.

“C’mon.” He jerked his head. “I’ll walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“It’s late.” He pressed a gentle hand to your back and nudged you forward.

The two of you walked silently in tandem, chirping crickets duetting the sounds of people still returning home. There, the faint sound of a television floating through an open window. The high-pitched giggle of children tussling before bed. The sharp bark of a dog a few blocks away. Everything came together with the steady tapping of your feet, the evening orchestra buoying you up until you felt like you could float high above the clouds, watching Osaka sprawl around you: a never-ending collection of stories hidden away amongst the winding streets, your own a part of them. Atsumu’s too.

“What’re you smilin’ about?”

You shrugged, filled with a luminous joy at being able to soak in this moment, right here right now. Something small flickered on his face, the playful edges of his smirk melting into something sweeter. “I just had a really good day. Your teammates are nice, by the way.”

“They’re a buncha morons,” he said with a shake of his head. “What made your day so good, huh? Seein’ fireworks for the first time?”

Your glare was lukewarm at best. “Everything was good. The festival, the stall, the fireworks…” You tapped the back of his hand with yours. “Meeting your friends, working with Osamu…”

“Don’t tell me you’re fallin’ for him,” he groaned, throwing his head back like he was getting paid to be dramatic. “I thought we agreed that was off bounds.”

“Atsumu, you were _literally inside me_ last week.”

“What’re you tryin’ to say?” He blocked the gate to your apartment again, crossing his arms and pulling the same song and dance the night he’d insisted you drink with him. He leaned in, that same, unfamiliar softness in him, like fragile threads of spun sugar twirled around and around in a dizzy spiral. “Are you fallin’ for _me_ then?”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said, a little airily, feeling like the world had been tilted on his axis, your heart leaping into your throat.

“That wasn’t a no.” The teasing lilt in his voice was tempered by the slow, deliberate way he spoke, a ribbon of rich, dark chocolate flecked with chili peppers that melted on your tongue.

You’d told him, plain and simple, that in spite of things that transpired between the sheets of your bed or on the cushions on your couch, there was a clear line between you. You’d drawn it yourself, dragged the stick through the sand and pointed out which side was his, and which was yours.

Atsumu glanced down as you licked your lips, your thoughts tumbling over each other.

Kissing goodnight was blurring the line.

You took a deep breath and tore your eyes from the soft curve of his lips. “Come upstairs.”

“You sure? It’s late.”

Your ‘yes’ caught in your throat as you looked up at him, and the way he looked…

You pushed the thought aside. You’d talked about it. You’d set your boundaries. You’d established that whatever happened in the privacy of your apartments meant nothing outside of them; this was just friends helping each other out, scratching an itch just like he’d said. There was no reason he’d be looking at you with…with what looked like a flicker of _hope—_ And anyway…

Sleeping over was blurring the line.

“Just stay for a bit. For a cup of tea, or coffee, or something.”

Atsumu’s eyes grew distant, just the slightest shade cooler like he’d stepped inside himself and closed the door.

“Or somethin’.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence that seemed to stretch too long.

He moved away and goosebumps prickled along the back of your neck despite the humidity laid thick on your skin. “Nah, I should get goin’. I’ll see you around.”

You watched as he ambled down the street, hands tucked in his pockets. Then he rounded the corner, his hair gleaming golden as it caught the light, and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Summertime Magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diLp6hUqvVk)
> 
> Come watch fireworks with me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	13. taiyaki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of my favourite chapters!! Just assume that every chapter up until the end is one of my favourite chapters ajkhdlkahskdjlsa. I hope u guys like it as much as me!!! As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos you're all so lovely!!! 🍰🥐
> 
> Smut warning at the start!!

The season crawled snail’s pace towards fall, and the temperature began to drop, even if only slightly. The humidity still wreaked havoc in your kitchen whenever you had to temper chocolate, various dehumidifiers buzzing away in the corners to try and remedy the situation.

It was raining today, the mugginess breaking somewhat, the A/C sending a shiver down your spine you hadn’t felt once through the baking hot summer. That was a perfectly good reason, you figured, to press yourself flush against Atsumu, your fingers splaying across his bare chest as you rode him. Sitting up on the couch he had easy access to you, kissing you slow, the catching drag and pull of his lips like syrup as they trailed down your jaw. His hands flexed against your hips, digging into your ass as he rocked you forward urgently, tensing at the steady ride and fall of your hips, the circles you were winding around his cock making his thighs tense.

“Fuck that’s good,” he gasped when you squeezed your walls, pulling a low groan from your chest. Your fingers walked up to grab at the back of the couch, your arms draping across his shoulders as you nudged his mouth back up to yours, canting your hips and rocking them back and forth as he ground up against something that made your eyes flicker open and closed, almost vibrating in his arms.

Atsumu started moving you in earnest, pressing his feet into the floor and lifting his hips, a fluid, deliberate roll to meet yours until you stuttered over his name and fell over the edge, your hands twisting in his hair until he followed you over.

You pressed fleeting kisses on his cheeks as he smoothed his hands up and down your back, purring with satisfaction like an overgrown cat as he whispered half-formed obscenities under his breath, his thighs still tense beneath you. It was too comfortable to move, the easy way he was holding you against him leaving you pliant and drowsy as you pulled back. You contemplated him for a long minute as he stared back at you, trying to determine what the hell was going through your head. There was no other way to describe it: you felt unbelievably soft today, warm and gooey like the slow melt of vanilla ice cream on a slice of hot apple pie. Marshmallow soft, slowly sinking into a mug of hot cocoa. Without giving yourself a chance to think twice about it, you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around yourself like a blanket, letting your hands splay once more on his chest as you slowly curled up against him. You carefully watched him as his eyes widened, the gentle pull of surprise flitting across his features before he shifted sideways and pulled you with him, tucking your head under his chin.

“This feels an awful lot like cuddlin’,” he murmured into your hair, giving you a squeeze when you grumbled incoherently.

“Doesn’t count if you’re still inside me.” It was a long stretch and you both knew it, but he swallowed the retort lingering on the tip of his tongue.

It was strange for him to stay so still; he was used to using his body, fidgeting and twirling things just to occupy himself whenever he had to sit for a moment. He was used to kicking his legs up and down, jiggling his knee, spinning an empty bottle around; even now his fingers itched to rub soothing circles into your back and shoulders, to pepper light kisses along the top of your head until you looked up and he could kiss you thoroughly, properly, leaving you breathless.

He felt your breathing evening out, the steady thump of your heart slowing imperceptibly and he gave in, indulging a little. Just enough to satiate the burning hunger in his belly as he held you impossibly tighter, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. That was enough, he told himself, even as his legs shifted to tangle with yours, pressing every part of you he could against him. This was a dangerous game and he knew it; this whetting of his appetite.

Eventually he had to nudge you awake, murmuring he’d be back as he went to throw out the condom and wash his hands, and you sank into the scratchy surface of his couch. When he returned with a damp washcloth you gave him a lazy smile and gently swiped at the mess between your legs as he reached under the coffee table for his underwear and pulled them on. You stretched luxuriously, the washcloth dangling limply from your hand as he nudged you with his knee.

“You gettin’ up or what?”

“Mm…in a bit.” He snorted and gave you an affectionate smile, grabbing the rag from your hand to toss with the rest of his dirty laundry, but you stopped him with a finger hooked into the band of his underwear. “Just…chill for a bit.”

He looked at you reclining on his couch, still soft and hazy, and something in him rumbled, the low and steady purr of hunger buzzing in his ears. He must’ve taken too long because your face twisted slightly, frowning as you said, “Can you just sit your ass down for second?”

Carefully Atsumu perched on the couch, dragging his nails along your scalp when your head bumped against his thigh. “Why’re you bein’ so needy?” he said, like he wasn’t eager to keep you like this, like he wasn’t devouring every soft piece of you right now, licking his fingers clean.

“It’s been a long week,” you groaned, turning to bury your face into the cushion. Atsumu trailed his hand down to your neck, his fingers deftly rubbing into the tense muscles there, and his ego swelled when you shivered but didn’t push him away, melting into the couch a little more. “Feels nice.”

Your words were half muffled, and he poked fun just to ignore the way they made him feel. “’Course it does. I got magic fingers, didn’tcha know?”

You rolled over to glare at him as he smirked back, his hand falling to rest beside your head, those magic fingers tickling along the shell of your ear. When you stood to dress, he almost grabbed you and pulled you back down on the couch, some half-assed excuse forming in his mind. Instead, he rose with you and pulled on his abandoned clothes, and walked you to the door.

“We’re still good for next week?” you asked him, lingering just a little while longer, indulging the gentle tugging sensation lodged between your ribs.

“What’s the matter? Worried I’d forget about you?” Atsumu braced a firm forearm against the doorframe as he looked at you, soaking you in and committing the sight of you sleepy, soft, and satiated to his mind’s eye, the memory of the warmth of your hands on his chest mingling with the gently flittering butterflies already there.

“You’re the one who _whined_ at me until I agreed to go with you—”

“ _Whined_? Now you’re just lyin’.” He pinched at your cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughed at your offended glare. “Maybe you are fallin’ for me.”

He’d always been a little too observant; maybe it was an unfortunate, if useful, side-effect from setting, this ability to read a little too well into the people around him. There was split second when he saw your mouth part, saw your eyebrows jump slightly before you scowled at him and pushed his hand from your face, your hand lingering on his for a moment too long, the slight crease in between your brows so cute he almost wanted to kiss it.

“Goodbye, Atsumu.”

“Still wasn’t a no,” he called after you, laughing brightly in that stupid boyish way he did when he was really happy. There’d been a moment of hesitation, he was sure of it; it did something funny to him, made him feel a little giddy and warmed the apples of his cheeks. It was a dangerous feeling and he knew it was, knew that he was slowly sipping at the decadently sweet possibility of something forbidden.

He’d been yelled at by past flings, girls that had also cuddled close to him, women that had pried his arms apart to sink soft and pretty into his arms, batting big eyes lined with tears to ask if they couldn’t be something more. That had yelled at him in his doorway or on the street or inside a restaurant that you still needed to feel _something_ in order to fuck around with someone. He never really got that until now; not until you’d told him firmly and quietly that affection, that dreaded sticky web he’d failed to dodge so many times before, was off limits. In a way it made him crave it more now that he couldn’t have it, but there was something about it that just made him feel so _good._ This rush of endorphins and oxytocin every time you leaned a little bit into him or grabbed at his tickling hands just made him feel so…so—

Atsumu slapped his hands to his cheeks. He was acting like a damn schoolgirl right now, thinking too hard about your thoughts and feelings and what that look on your face had meant and what it meant for him. Was this how other people felt? This careful navigation of someone else’s feelings, afraid they might trip over a hidden wire or stumble into a snare, throwing the whole thing into chaos and scaring the object of their affections away? Did he really want to subject himself to this stupid, careful dance when he could just go for what he wanted?

The reckless part of him wanted to dive head first into it, to splash through the sunlight waves, to ride the exhilarating current. The other part, the part tempered with age and experience, the part that remembered telling a few too many girls he “just wasn’t ready for a relationship”, the part that’d been _told_ “I can’t tell if you really like me, if you’re _serious_ about me” by the rest—

Maybe for the first time ever, as far as he could remember, he told himself to take his time and wait. This wasn’t some fancy new volleyball play he just had to try out right away, and even if it was, if past encounters were any indication, you wouldn’t appreciate him running full-steam towards you with this bundle of…of _something soft and quiet and wonderful_ clutched in his hands. The thought of losing his Saturday night running partner, your decadent desserts, the sound of you laughing at something ‘Samu said at Atsumu’s expense, the sight of your face, upturned and open as fireworks and stars glowed in your eyes, the way you looked at him in the back of the van, the soft feeling of your mouth skirting his, fingers brushing along his as if too afraid to ask for him to hold you…

He didn’t want to lose it.

A week later Atsumu barely registered the _Danjiri Matsuri_ , an impressive feat given the entire festival was a loud, rumbling affair. Elaborately carved wooden carts rolled down the streets, covered in fragrant flowers and glittering ornaments, fans flashing and flitting like brightly coloured birds through the air as the leaders atop each cart, or _danjiri,_ danced. He was more preoccupied with the way you were tight against his side, thankful for once for the tightly packed crowd surrounding him. He could barely hear you over the booming yells of the men pulling the _danjiri_ , each thick rope taut and straining from the effort, the stamping of thousands of feet echoing his pounding heart as you grabbed his arm.

He missed it the first time you yelled something into his ear, too busy staring at the earnest way you were looking at him. You laughed and his heart _sang_ , and this time heard you, the word, “Hungry?” never sounding quite so sweet. He nodded dumbly, helping you shift through the crowd towards the ever-present line of food stalls, letting you pass him _takoyaki, okonomiyaki_ and skewers of sweet potato. You bought souvenirs together, matching fox masks to sit crooked on your heads, delicate paper fans painted red and blue, and a little wooden doll you said you were going to ship off to Hanamaki as you giggled.

Later the two of you sat atop a hill, watching as the night procession began, the rows of lightly swaying paper lanterns brilliant and mystical atop of the sea of people still diligently pulling _danjiri_ through the street. Your shoulder bumped his as you yawned, tears pricking at your eyes. He reached an arm out and pulled you across the grass to lean up against him, grinning at your sleepy blinks.

“Tired?”

“No.” You yawned again, trying and failing to fight through it.

Atsumu chuckled, pulling you up with him. “Look atcha. You’re fallin’ asleep on your feet.”

“’M not,” you slurred drowsily, patting your head to make sure the mask was still in place. Grumbling at the “I told you so” look on his face, you tugged down on his mask, laughing softly as the mischievous fox face grinned back at you. “You look way cuter like this.”

He hooked his thumb into the bottom of his mask and lifted it, frowning petulantly at you. “I’m plenty cute.”

The slow shuffle to the station was made ten times worse by the fatigue weighing heavy along your limbs, your heading bobbing back and forth and side to side as you squinted at the crowd and willed it to move faster. The thought of enduring another 45-minute train ride made you pout as you hazily glanced around, hoping for some kind of divine intervention to whisk you back to your apartment as quickly as possible. Spotting a mostly empty, dimly lit alley to your right, you latched your hand onto Atsumu’s wrist and pulled, shimmying sideways through the crowd and tugging him behind you like some sort of cumbersome anchor.

At some point he was caught between a group of men that seemed far to keen to let you pass, but not him, and your hand slipped free; without a moment’s hesitation you slotted your fingers between his, grounded your feet and _yanked_ , sending him surging forwards as he gave a few half-hearted apologies along with a crooked smile. The din of the crowd faded as the two of you trotted down the street, skirting bicycles and sidewalk signs.

“Y’know,” Atsumu cleared his throat, “this looks real suspicious.”

“What does?”

“You, draggin’ me down a dark alley. Are you plannin’ on doin’ something dirty to me?”

Belatedly you realized you were, indeed, still holding onto his hand, and you jerked away, unable to look at him as he laughed loud and boisterous in the street.

“Aw, why’d ya stop?” From the corner of your eye, you could see him doing that stupid finger wiggle he seemed so fond of. “I kinda felt like I was in a shoujo manga—”

You groaned and walked a little faster, hearing his footsteps pick up to keep pace with you. “You are so _annoying_ , stupid ‘Tsumu!”

“If you want to hold my hand that bad you don’t have to be _shy_ ‘bout it!” He caught your hand before you could pull it away, stubbornly digging his feet in the ground and holding you back until you were facing him under the flattering glow of lantern-light.

“Why are you like this?” The bite slipped from your voice as he tugged you a little closer, his nose a hair’s breadth away from nudging yours as he uncurled your fingers with his thumb and pressed your palm flat against his chest. You were more than intimately familiar with the hard planes of his chest, but the steady thrum of his heartbeat picking up and the curl of his fingers around yours made your breath catch.

“Be gentle…it’s my first time…!”

Your face blazed hotter than a thousand suns and you yanked your hand away, mouth clamped shut as you stalked down the street in time with his annoyingly adorable laughter, his voice hiccupping as he stumbled behind you.

“I hate you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” He made another pass at your hand, but you pulled away, stubbornly crossing your arms and shooting him a haughty look that had his own eyes narrowing in challenge. “You wanna play it like that, huh?”

“I’m not _playing_ anything— _ack_.”

The way he grabbed you and pulled reminded you of the cartoons you used to watch as a kid: a big, long hook stretching out to snatch Daffy Duck off-stage paired with the comical stretch of his neck and the loud, over-exaggerated gulp he would do, only leaving behind a few feathers to drift sadly to the ground. You weren’t too far from the brightly lit storefronts, still close enough you could see the curious, furtive looks a few passersby sent your way.

Sleepiness forgotten from the adrenaline running through your veins, you poked at his chest. “What the hell was that for?!”

“You’re not actually mad, are ya?” His hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking along your cheek. He looked intently at you as you let your head thump gently against the wall, your nose wrinkling.

“No? Why would I be?”

“Just makin’ sure.”

You shifted uncomfortably, the edge of your mask digging into the back of your head, but before you could shift it out of the way Atsumu reached up and did it for you, careful to avoid scraping it along your scalp. You felt the air stutter out of your lungs as you tracked the way his eyes, brilliant obsidian in the shadows, moved from your mask to your face. There it was; that same look you were starting to notice with more frequency, the one that felt like lazy mornings and promises of breakfast in bed.

On instinct you snagged the edge of his mask to tug over his face. “Why’re you being so nice all of a sudden? It’s weird.”

His hand caught yours before you could cover his mouth with the mask, its impish smile resting on the bridge of his nose. “Why’s it weird?”

“I don’t know.” You could feel the handle of the fan tucked into your waistband pressing into the small of your back and you shifted forward, the scuffle of your shoes along the cobblestone ringing in Atsumu’s ears. He slipped a big hand between your body and the wall and slipped the fan free, letting it clatter to the ground as his palm pressed warmly against the base of your spine.

You felt like you were balancing on a tightrope this close to him, teetering dangerously side to side, a delicious swoop in your stomach as you flirted with the idea of falling. “Are _you_ planning doing something dirty?”

His hand flexed against you almost like an afterthought, and you wanted to lift the mask, peek at his face, see what he was thinking.

“No, not that.” He smirked, his crinkling nose nudging the mask up. “Maybe another time.”

You began to object, pressing your free hand to his chest to push him away.

“Just hang on a sec, will you?” When you stilled, he slipped closer, his mouth hovering above yours as if asking for permission before you met him halfway, your body humming with the gentle way his lips pressed and moved against your own. When he pulled away you pushed the mask up and off, letting it dangle from your hand as you wound your arms around his neck, rising to your tiptoes to kiss him properly. He tasted like salt and sweet potato, but it didn’t matter, because when he was kissing you it felt like…

It felt like fireworks whistling through the air, fiery starbursts of colour lighting the night sky. Like the gentle bobbing of paper lanterns lighting people’s way. The soft sound of laughter, the gentle sweep of his hand through your hair, the comforting weight of his arm around you. Like the quick descent of a rollercoaster, making you feel weightless and giddy as you looped and spun through the air.

The kiss felt like it ended far too soon, your mind hazy as you slowly opened your eyes, blinking slowly up at Atsumu. He pressed a few more, lingering kisses to your mouth, drinking you up, savouring you as long as he could.

He was panting lightly as he rested his forehead against yours, searching your eyes before he drew away, tilting his head to the side as he tangled his fingers in yours. You let him, a warmth running from his hand to yours to slip through your veins and bloom in your chest, and for once…you didn’t try to push it away.

“C’mon.” He led you back to the street, smiling the whole while. “I’ll take you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [Bleach](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTMucy4PR2k)
> 
> Go to the festival with me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


End file.
